Bob-Thin Or the poorhouse fugitive: By W. J. Linton: Illustrated by T. Sibson-- W. B. Scott-- E. Duncan-- W. J. Linton |
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 | Bob-Thin |  |
And here and there uppeeps
Through grassy hair the rude and weird face
Of some grey rock, one of the giant race
Of our bleak birthplace, grey as the memories
Of an uncultured world, the asperities
Of our progressive life; and still in sight
The ancient hill appears, its head in heaven;
And little rustic homelinesses
Welcome the mountain-born with flower-wreathing,
Bright buttercups, primroses quiet-breathing,
Rich-scented chestnut-bloom;
And in the torrent's foam
The sweet May dips her tresses,
Scarcely distinct:—On, on the waves are driven;
As o'er us the old mountain voice still hovers,
And every turn discovers
New beauty; other streamlets pour,
Like other minds, their flood of thought,
Or other beings influence, brought
From many a distance, hour by hour;
And the stream swells its volume, and the tide
Of power is amplified;
And earth is fertilized, field-glories wave,
And human dwellings stand on either side;
While with melodious stave
The river saileth through the busy scene,
And o'er it most serene
The hill-song, like a heaven-burden, hovers.
Through grassy hair the rude and weird face
Of some grey rock, one of the giant race
Of our bleak birthplace, grey as the memories
Of an uncultured world, the asperities
Of our progressive life; and still in sight
The ancient hill appears, its head in heaven;
And little rustic homelinesses
Welcome the mountain-born with flower-wreathing,
Bright buttercups, primroses quiet-breathing,
Rich-scented chestnut-bloom;
And in the torrent's foam
The sweet May dips her tresses,
Scarcely distinct:—On, on the waves are driven;
As o'er us the old mountain voice still hovers,
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New beauty; other streamlets pour,
Like other minds, their flood of thought,
Or other beings influence, brought
From many a distance, hour by hour;
And the stream swells its volume, and the tide
Of power is amplified;
And earth is fertilized, field-glories wave,
And human dwellings stand on either side;
While with melodious stave
The river saileth through the busy scene,
And o'er it most serene
The hill-song, like a heaven-burden, hovers.
| Bob-Thin | |