Sonnet V. To The South Downs

AH! hills beloved!--where once, a happy child, Your beechen shades, 'your turf, your flowers among,' I wove your blue-bells into garlands wild, And woke your echoes with my artless song. Ah! hills beloved!--your turf, your flowers remain; But can they peace to this sad breast restore, For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain, And teach a breaking heart to throb no more? And you, Aruna!--in the vale below, As to the sea your limpid waves you bear Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow, To drink a long oblivion to my care? Ah! no!--when all, e'en Hope's last ray is gone, There's no oblivion--but in death alone!