On me, thy humbler votary, shower
The balmy dews of every flower,
Which oft thy curious hand has twin’d
Thy Burdett’s favour’d brows to bind!
PART, V.
Whence, Needwood, that tremendous sound!—
—Low dying murmurs run around,
A deeper gloom the wood receives,
And horror shivers on the leaves,
Loud shriekes the hern, the raven croaks—