 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
44
The Wild Thyme still Blossoms.
1824.
[_]
[Homil-heugh is the name of one of the Cheviot Hills, in the vicinity of Wooler. At the foot of this mountain was fought the celebrated battle in which Hotspur took Archibald, Earl of Douglas, and many others of the Scottish nobility prisoners. The ultimate consequences of that conflict to the House of Percy, are familiar to every reader of English history and of Shakspeare. The mountain is endeared to me by recollections of a thousand wanderings about it, in company with the subject of this lyric—John Smith, of Humbleton—the most beloved, as he was the first, of my youthful friends.]
The wild thyme still blossoms on green Homil-heugh,
The daisy and crow-flower mingle there still;
And the young, as in other years, climb it to view
The wanderings bright of the Glen and the Till.
But where—where is He who delighted to view
The charms of that valley from green Homil-heugh?
The daisy and crow-flower mingle there still;
And the young, as in other years, climb it to view
The wanderings bright of the Glen and the Till.
But where—where is He who delighted to view
The charms of that valley from green Homil-heugh?
O Memory! I need not invoke thee to roll
Away the dark mists of long years, and to bring
The light of that time on my sorrowing soul,
When together we roved in our Manhood's gay spring;
Too often, for happiness, pass in review
The days we have spent upon green Homil-heugh!
Away the dark mists of long years, and to bring
The light of that time on my sorrowing soul,
When together we roved in our Manhood's gay spring;
Too often, for happiness, pass in review
The days we have spent upon green Homil-heugh!
45
How we talked! as we loitered by dell or by shelf,
Or sat on some moss-covered crag in the sun—
We spoke not of station, we spoke not of pelf,
We talked but of Bards and the Glory they won:
And bright were the hopes—ah, to both how untrue!—
Our young bosoms cherished on green Homil-heugh.
Or sat on some moss-covered crag in the sun—
We spoke not of station, we spoke not of pelf,
We talked but of Bards and the Glory they won:
And bright were the hopes—ah, to both how untrue!—
Our young bosoms cherished on green Homil-heugh.
O! who could have thought, that beheld the fair dawn—
Beheld of his Mind the first splendour unfurled—
That a dark cloud would o'er it so shortly be drawn,
And its light be for ever eclipsed to the world?
That the harp whose wild strains he so daringly threw
So soon would be silent on green Homil-heugh?
Beheld of his Mind the first splendour unfurled—
That a dark cloud would o'er it so shortly be drawn,
And its light be for ever eclipsed to the world?
That the harp whose wild strains he so daringly threw
So soon would be silent on green Homil-heugh?
But 'tis so with all bright things. The rose newly blown
Soon withers; the Sunbeam is quenched in the shower;
The Rainbow just shines on the cloud, and is gone;
The Lightning just flashes, and past is its power.
And the soul of my first friend hath vanished like dew
From the calm morning side of the green Homil-heugh!
Soon withers; the Sunbeam is quenched in the shower;
The Rainbow just shines on the cloud, and is gone;
The Lightning just flashes, and past is its power.
And the soul of my first friend hath vanished like dew
From the calm morning side of the green Homil-heugh!
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