 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
V.
'Tis a rich scene; and yet the richest charmThat e'er cloth'd earth in beauty, lives not here.
Winds no green fence around the cultured farm;
No blossom'd hawthorn shields the cottage dear.
The land is bright, and yet to thine how drear,
Unrivall'd England!—Well the thought may pine
For those sweet fields where each, a little sphere,
In shaded, sacred fruitfulness doth shine,
And the heart higher beats that says, “This spot is mine.”
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |