By late Hon. T. Talbot.
A tiny vale nestling where ocean’s God raves,
And lull’d to respose by the song of the waves.
What a quaint little vale! with its knolls and its dells:--
Like a miniature ocean, it sinks and it swells;
With groves and green hedge-rows, all dotting the scene,
And streams gaily glancing, the meadows between.
But hedge-row, and hillock, and meadow and grove,
And the hold cliffs around, and the light clouds above,
Yon lake’s gentle bosom are sleeping within—
That mirror reclin’d on the lap of the glen.
Sweet beautiful lake! oh what tongue could portray
Thy bosom’s repose at the rising of day.
When the White Hills look out from thy clear depths below,
And the trees that, inverted, seem downward to grow;
When the town of St. John’s lays her head on thy breast.
To calm down the sorrows that troubled her rest;
Or to chase back the visions that night had brought on.
And kiss ‘neath the wave the bright rays of the sun.
Now, such was the landscape that gladdened the sight
All smiling and glowing in a tremor of light;
And, while fondly, I viewed all its bright features o’er,
I felt it n’er look’d half so lovely before.