Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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Farley Heath,
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
Farley Heath,
Near Guildford, Surrey.
Many a day have I whiled away
Upon hopeful Farley-heath,
In its antique soil digging for spoil
Of possible treasure beneath;
For celts, and querns, and funereal urns,
And rich red Samian ware,
And sculptured stones, and centurions' bones
May all lie buried there!
Upon hopeful Farley-heath,
In its antique soil digging for spoil
Of possible treasure beneath;
For celts, and querns, and funereal urns,
And rich red Samian ware,
And sculptured stones, and centurions' bones
May all lie buried there!
How calmly serene, and glad have I been
From morn till eve to stay,
My Surrey serfs turning the turfs
The happy live long day;
With eye still bright, and hope yet alight,
Wistfully watching the mould
As the spade brings up fragments of things
Fifteen centuries old!
From morn till eve to stay,
My Surrey serfs turning the turfs
The happy live long day;
217
Wistfully watching the mould
As the spade brings up fragments of things
Fifteen centuries old!
Pleasant and rare it was to be there
On a joyous day of June,
With the circling scene all gay and green
Steep'd in the silent noon;
When beauty distils from the calm glad hills,—
From the downs and dimpling vales;
And every grove, lazy with love,
Whispereth tenderest tales!
On a joyous day of June,
With the circling scene all gay and green
Steep'd in the silent noon;
When beauty distils from the calm glad hills,—
From the downs and dimpling vales;
And every grove, lazy with love,
Whispereth tenderest tales!
O then to look back upon Time's old track
And dream of the days long past,
When Rome leant here on his sentinel spear
And loud was the clarion's blast—
As wild and shrill from Martyrs'-hill
Echoed the patriot-shout,
Or rush'd pell-mell with a midnight yell
The rude barbarian rout!
And dream of the days long past,
When Rome leant here on his sentinel spear
And loud was the clarion's blast—
As wild and shrill from Martyrs'-hill
Echoed the patriot-shout,
Or rush'd pell-mell with a midnight yell
The rude barbarian rout!
Yes; every stone has a tale of its own,
A volume of old lore;
And this white sand from many a brand
Has polish'd gouts of gore;
When Holmbury-height had its beacon light,
And Cantii held old Leith,
And Rome stood then with his iron men
On ancient Farley-heath!
A volume of old lore;
And this white sand from many a brand
Has polish'd gouts of gore;
When Holmbury-height had its beacon light,
And Cantii held old Leith,
And Rome stood then with his iron men
On ancient Farley-heath!
218
How many a group of that exiled troop
Have here sung songs of home,
Chaunting aloud to a wondering crowd
The glories of old Rome!
Or lying at length have bask'd their strength
Amid this heather and gorse,
Or down by the well in the larch-grown dell
Water'd the black war-horse!
Have here sung songs of home,
Chaunting aloud to a wondering crowd
The glories of old Rome!
Or lying at length have bask'd their strength
Amid this heather and gorse,
Or down by the well in the larch-grown dell
Water'd the black war-horse!
Look, look! my day-dream right ready would seem
The past with the present to join,—
For see! I have found in this rare ground
An eloquent green old coin,
With turquoise rust on its Emperor's bust—
Some Cæsar, august Lord,
And the legend terse, and the classic reverse,
“Victory, valour's reward!—”
The past with the present to join,—
For see! I have found in this rare ground
An eloquent green old coin,
With turquoise rust on its Emperor's bust—
Some Cæsar, august Lord,
And the legend terse, and the classic reverse,
“Victory, valour's reward!—”
Victory,—yes! and happiness
Kind comrade, to me and to you,
When such rich spoil has crown'd our toil
And proved the day-dream true;
With hearty acclaim how we hail'd by his name
The Cæsar of that coin,
And told with a shout his titles out
And drank his health in wine!
Kind comrade, to me and to you,
When such rich spoil has crown'd our toil
And proved the day-dream true;
With hearty acclaim how we hail'd by his name
The Cæsar of that coin,
And told with a shout his titles out
And drank his health in wine!
And then how blest the noon-day rest
Reclined on a grassy bank,
With hungry cheer and the brave old beer
Better than Odin drank;
And the secret balm of the spirit at calm,
And poetry, hope, and health,—
Aye, have I not found in that rare ground
A mine of more than wealth!
Reclined on a grassy bank,
With hungry cheer and the brave old beer
Better than Odin drank;
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And poetry, hope, and health,—
Aye, have I not found in that rare ground
A mine of more than wealth!
| Ballads for the Times | |