« PreviousContinue »
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place, where human harvests grow!
78.—SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN
Beside the springs of Dove,
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be:
The difference to me!
In lands beyond the sea;
What love I bore to thee.
Nor will I quit thy shore
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played; And thine, too, is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
79.— THE SAILOR.
The sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
He climbs the mast to feast his eyes once more,
Ah! now, each dear domestic scene he knew,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view,
True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
This, the last wish that would with life depart,
When morn first faintly draws her silver line,
When sea and sky in midnight-darkness join,
Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
And, when the beating billows round him roar,
Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
But lo! at last he comes with crowded sail!
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend.
—'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furled; Soon through the whitening surge he springs on land,
And clasps the maid he singled from the world.
80.—THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
The stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
O'er all the pleasant land!
Through shade and sunny gleam,
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night
Meet in the ruddy light!
Or childish tale is told,
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
And round the hamlet fanes.J
Each from its nook of leaves;
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long in hut and hall
To guard each hallowed wall!
And bright the flowery sod,
Its country and its God!
81 — ADDRESS TO A CHILD DURING A
What way does the Wind come? What way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow,
Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height,
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see:
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook
And ring a sharp 'larum; but if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock.
—Yet seek him,—and what shall you find in his place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!
As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me
Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like a man in a battle:—
But let him rage round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read,—but that half stifled knell,
Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.
Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there