Not deserted, though lonely: the vale in its centre,
Girt with Barn and rough Linhay, encloses a farm;
And o’er the warm nook of its deepest indenture,
The orchard’s fair bloom sheds its fugitive charm.
An eye little used to such leafy profusion,
Might fancy yon hedge-row one wide-waving wood;
And furze and plumed fern, as to aid the illusion,
Here and there on the tameness of culture intrude.
But wildest the mixture of shrub, bush, and bramble,
And sweetest the scent which the wild flowers breathe,