 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
371
FIR-CROFT.
Sweet Fir-Croft! nestling at the feet
Of uplands ever green,
When high the pulse of summer beat,
Before me spread thy scene.
Pines on the hill, like watchmen placed
Thy fields below to guard,
The background of a picture graced
That chained the glance of bard.
Of uplands ever green,
When high the pulse of summer beat,
Before me spread thy scene.
Pines on the hill, like watchmen placed
Thy fields below to guard,
The background of a picture graced
That chained the glance of bard.
The deep-voiced Susquehanna through
The foreground swiftly rolled,
And sunlight on his bosom threw
A flood of molten gold;
A river of more varied charms
Wild wind hath never swept,
And in his bright, embracing arms
Full many an islet slept.
The foreground swiftly rolled,
And sunlight on his bosom threw
A flood of molten gold;
A river of more varied charms
Wild wind hath never swept,
And in his bright, embracing arms
Full many an islet slept.
I looked upon thy fountain bright
That round a coolness flung,
And fancied that each beam of light
With radiant pearl was strung.
Brooks, welling forth from rocks up-piled,
Woke echoes on their way,
As if a thousand naiads wild
Were racing through the spray.
That round a coolness flung,
And fancied that each beam of light
With radiant pearl was strung.
Brooks, welling forth from rocks up-piled,
Woke echoes on their way,
As if a thousand naiads wild
Were racing through the spray.
My blessing, Fir-Croft, on thee rest,
And on thy worthy lord!
May sorrow ne'er within his breast
Awake one jarring chord!
The dust of earth's great battle-ground
Dims not thy landscape fair,
And in thy quiet shades I found
A spell to conquer care
And on thy worthy lord!
372
Awake one jarring chord!
The dust of earth's great battle-ground
Dims not thy landscape fair,
And in thy quiet shades I found
A spell to conquer care
The wood-paths up thy mountain-side
That led to quiet bowers—
Thy meadows, laughing in a wide
Embroidery of flowers—
Thy rushing and romantic streams—
Each glen—each fairy knoll—
Will oft be visible in dreams
To bathe in bliss my soul.
That led to quiet bowers—
Thy meadows, laughing in a wide
Embroidery of flowers—
Thy rushing and romantic streams—
Each glen—each fairy knoll—
Will oft be visible in dreams
To bathe in bliss my soul.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |