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Scorn not the wreath, all humble though it be,

A wild-Jlow'r garland frsm thy native plains, Glean'd in the Muse's path, where blossom free Flowers of all hues, and woodland melody

Blends its rude music with the solemn strains
Of airy harps and antique minstrelsy:

Whether J search amid the hoar remains
Of Medway-icoter'd Allington, or rove
Beneath the "sacred shade'' of Penshurst-^rwe;
Or Cranbrook's vale, and Rother's banks invite
My wandering feet; or, with increas'd delight,
Thine own fair Stour, which all the Muses love:
Thee for my guide, each hallow'd scene I trace,
And taught by thee revere the Genius of the place.

R.F.

Feb. 25, 1821.

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