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ROBINSON’S THE CAMP Woman’s Lit February 25, 2010 Close on the margin of a brawling brook That bathes the low dell's bosom, stands a cot, O'ershadow'd by broad alders. At its door A rude seat, with an ozier canopy, Invites the weary traveller to rest. Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within The sweets of joy domestic oft have made The long hour not uncheerly, while the moor Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak blast Swept with impetuous wing the mountain's brow! On every tree of the near sheltering wood The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild, Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling Love-songs spontaneous, greets him merrily. The distant hills, empurpled by the dawn, And thinly scatter'd with blue mists that float On their bleak summits dimly visible, Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the air Breathes healthful fragrance. On the cottage roof The gadding ivy, and the tawny vine Bind the brown thatch, the shelter'd winter-hut Of the tame sparrow, and the red-breast bold. There dwells the soldier's widow! young and fair, Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return, And every hour anticipates the day (Deceived, yet cherish'd, by the flatterer Hope) When she shall meet her hero. On the eve Of sabbath rest, she trims her little hut With blossoms fresh and gaudy, still herself
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This note was uploaded on 09/07/2011 for the course ENVD 3114 taught by Professor Pyatt during the Spring '10 term at University of Colorado Denver.

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