 | Ernest |  |
Thus they went on,
Now in strait thread, now winding it, far round,
As the hills opened or else barred their way,
Nature's stern warders; following here some wild
Swift stream, tho' wayward, yet a cheerful guide;
There toiling up the steep, painful and hard:
Doubtful of footing, and that footing lost,
Sure of a headlong ruin, deep below,
Thundering down together, horse and man,
Crushed into one. That height, slowly attained,
With many a suspiration of hard breath,
And aching bones, straining on sullenly,
“For why should we be tasked so toilsomely
In such unwonted wise of holiday?”
Then would they halt awhile—halt, and look forth
Afar—beyond distinction of the eye;
Till dimness brooded under the sky-line,
And the end confounded all. Towers and spires
Looking in grey and mournful constancy
O'er the bright corn-fields' changeful livery;
Ruins mid Nature's ever-living green:
Wide waving forests frowning o'er the whole.
Orchards and parks, homesteads and hazy towns,
Scattered abroad like ships in boundless sea,
Such tiny motes as seem to magnify
The main. They looked, once and again; then turned,
In the eagerness of other gazing eyes,
And fellowship of gushing friendliness
To find fresh buoyancy and sparkling will
For fresh delight—like a tired thirsty man
Drinks from the spring, unsparely, draught on draught,
His much demanding more. The air of the hills—
Or Heav'n—for born between, it partook both,
Coursed like an elfin spirit thro' their blood,
Playing its frolic fancies on each brain,
Witching each heart; till merriment o'erflowed
With its own foam: they laughed and clapped their hands,
And age was youth, and youth was boyishness,
Bubbling and frothing in wild revelry,
As erst at its springhead.
Now in strait thread, now winding it, far round,
As the hills opened or else barred their way,
Nature's stern warders; following here some wild
Swift stream, tho' wayward, yet a cheerful guide;
There toiling up the steep, painful and hard:
Doubtful of footing, and that footing lost,
Sure of a headlong ruin, deep below,
Thundering down together, horse and man,
Crushed into one. That height, slowly attained,
With many a suspiration of hard breath,
And aching bones, straining on sullenly,
“For why should we be tasked so toilsomely
In such unwonted wise of holiday?”
Then would they halt awhile—halt, and look forth
Afar—beyond distinction of the eye;
Till dimness brooded under the sky-line,
And the end confounded all. Towers and spires
Looking in grey and mournful constancy
O'er the bright corn-fields' changeful livery;
Ruins mid Nature's ever-living green:
Wide waving forests frowning o'er the whole.
Orchards and parks, homesteads and hazy towns,
Scattered abroad like ships in boundless sea,
Such tiny motes as seem to magnify
The main. They looked, once and again; then turned,
In the eagerness of other gazing eyes,
And fellowship of gushing friendliness
To find fresh buoyancy and sparkling will
For fresh delight—like a tired thirsty man
Drinks from the spring, unsparely, draught on draught,
His much demanding more. The air of the hills—
Or Heav'n—for born between, it partook both,
Coursed like an elfin spirit thro' their blood,
Playing its frolic fancies on each brain,
Witching each heart; till merriment o'erflowed
With its own foam: they laughed and clapped their hands,
98
Bubbling and frothing in wild revelry,
As erst at its springhead.
| Ernest | |