 | The British Months |  |
Delight of recurring to past scenes. The Author's early botanical walks. Buriton. Its various walks and wild flowers. Wood Sorrel. Windflower and Harebell. Elm-blossoms. Sloe. Orchis and Ophrys tribes. Moschatel. Stichwort. Daisy. Violet. Crowfoot. Ladies' Smock. Primroses. Marsh Marigold. Ivy-leaved Speedwell. The Author's pleasure in the scenery. Recollection revived by the return of Spring
Such things are pleasant in their course,
Innocuous, blameless; and the source
Of after pleasure, when the mind,
To scenes and days left far behind
Recurring, finds the track remain
Of joys, and lives its life again.
Innocuous, blameless; and the source
Of after pleasure, when the mind,
To scenes and days left far behind
Recurring, finds the track remain
Of joys, and lives its life again.
Ev'n now does memory wake the time,
When wont with thee, Belov'd, to climb,
Though thrice ten years have past between
With chequer'd course, and many a scene
Quick-changing leave memorials there
Of joyance some, and some of care;
Still in my memory lives the time,
When first with thee I us'd to climb,
As in this passing vernal hour,
In search of every opening flow'r
And with sweet nature's love imbued,
The hazel copse, the beechen wood,
The green and chalky hills that swell
From Buriton's sequester'd dell.
When wont with thee, Belov'd, to climb,
Though thrice ten years have past between
With chequer'd course, and many a scene
Quick-changing leave memorials there
Of joyance some, and some of care;
Still in my memory lives the time,
When first with thee I us'd to climb,
As in this passing vernal hour,
In search of every opening flow'r
And with sweet nature's love imbued,
The hazel copse, the beechen wood,
The green and chalky hills that swell
From Buriton's sequester'd dell.
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Each well-known spot is vivid now,
Each gather'd flow'r! On yonder brow,
To which, the sloping hill side round,
The greensward pathway gently wound,
And from its flat and terrac'd height
Spread forth before the raptur'd sight
Low Petersfield's extended vale,
The woodland Sorrel's petals pale
Vein'd with fine purple streaks we found,
Hid in the thicket-mantled ground,
And cropt admiring. Yonder wood
Was with a purfled carpet strew'd
Of yellow-tinted white and blue,
Where in the beechen covert grew
Wind-flow'r and Harebell, side by side,
In station, not in kind, allied;
But lovely both, nor lovelier race
Gives the rathe Spring her blooming grace:
That upright with white petals spread,
This drooping with embowed head;
That scentless, this a fragrant smell
Diffusing from each azure bell;
Azure or white, for, though more rare,
The milk-white Harebell too was there.
Each gather'd flow'r! On yonder brow,
To which, the sloping hill side round,
The greensward pathway gently wound,
And from its flat and terrac'd height
Spread forth before the raptur'd sight
Low Petersfield's extended vale,
The woodland Sorrel's petals pale
Vein'd with fine purple streaks we found,
Hid in the thicket-mantled ground,
And cropt admiring. Yonder wood
Was with a purfled carpet strew'd
Of yellow-tinted white and blue,
Where in the beechen covert grew
Wind-flow'r and Harebell, side by side,
In station, not in kind, allied;
But lovely both, nor lovelier race
Gives the rathe Spring her blooming grace:
That upright with white petals spread,
This drooping with embowed head;
That scentless, this a fragrant smell
Diffusing from each azure bell;
Azure or white, for, though more rare,
The milk-white Harebell too was there.
Skirting the hill's projecting foot,
Where heav'd the ground the twisted root,
In those tall elm-trees' lengthen'd row
We paus'd to see their blossoms blow:
And in the hanging copse, beyond
The mirrour of that crystal pond,
To see what seem'd a sheet of snow
Clothe the dark branches of the Sloe,
Yet of its lingering foliage bare;
What time the keen and biting air
Smote the hard earth with influence frore,
And warn'd of winter not yet o'er,
And peasants, conscious of the claim,
Gave it the “blackthorn winter's” name.
Where heav'd the ground the twisted root,
In those tall elm-trees' lengthen'd row
We paus'd to see their blossoms blow:
And in the hanging copse, beyond
The mirrour of that crystal pond,
To see what seem'd a sheet of snow
Clothe the dark branches of the Sloe,
98
What time the keen and biting air
Smote the hard earth with influence frore,
And warn'd of winter not yet o'er,
And peasants, conscious of the claim,
Gave it the “blackthorn winter's” name.
In that broad field, 'mid springing grass,
First of his lipt and horned class,
The early-flowering Orchis show'd
His smooth and spotted leaves, and glow'd
With spikey stalk elate, and head
Of spiral blossoms purple-red.
And few of that most curious race,
Or those that rival them in grace,
Perhaps exceed, the Ophrys kind,
But in the advancing season join'd,
Stamp'd with their insect imagery,
Gnat, fly, and butterfly, and bee,
To lure us in pursuit to rove
That winding coombe, that shady grove.
First of his lipt and horned class,
The early-flowering Orchis show'd
His smooth and spotted leaves, and glow'd
With spikey stalk elate, and head
Of spiral blossoms purple-red.
And few of that most curious race,
Or those that rival them in grace,
Perhaps exceed, the Ophrys kind,
But in the advancing season join'd,
Stamp'd with their insect imagery,
Gnat, fly, and butterfly, and bee,
To lure us in pursuit to rove
That winding coombe, that shady grove.
There in the hollow lane, whose sides
The native rock o'erarching hides,
While from its moss-grown fissures well
The trickling drops, the Moschatel
Peep'd meekly from his rocky bed;
And scarcely dar'd his cluster'd head
Of star-like blossoms white, with scent
Faint, not ungrateful, redolent,
To proffer to the searching sight.
And there, with star-like blossoms white,
But less afraid of publick gaze,
The Stichwort spread its brighter rays;
Where the worn pathway wont to lead
Our steps along yon water'd mead,
Laced by that clear perennial brook.
Nor fail'd we rambling there to look
On “daisy pied, and violet blue,”
And creeping Crowfoot's yellow hue,
And that fair flow'r, “all silvery white,
That paints the meadows with delight :”
To see the pallid Primrose prank
With yellow eye the tufted bank;
To see the flaunting Marigold
Gay from its marshy bed unfold
Mid minor lights its disks that shine,
Like suns for brightness. Nor decline
The Speedwell's azure tints to mark,
And ivy-figur'd foliage dark,
Which our sequestered homestead field
And our lov'd garden walk would yield.
The native rock o'erarching hides,
While from its moss-grown fissures well
The trickling drops, the Moschatel
Peep'd meekly from his rocky bed;
And scarcely dar'd his cluster'd head
Of star-like blossoms white, with scent
Faint, not ungrateful, redolent,
To proffer to the searching sight.
And there, with star-like blossoms white,
But less afraid of publick gaze,
The Stichwort spread its brighter rays;
99
Our steps along yon water'd mead,
Laced by that clear perennial brook.
Nor fail'd we rambling there to look
On “daisy pied, and violet blue,”
And creeping Crowfoot's yellow hue,
And that fair flow'r, “all silvery white,
That paints the meadows with delight :”
To see the pallid Primrose prank
With yellow eye the tufted bank;
To see the flaunting Marigold
Gay from its marshy bed unfold
Mid minor lights its disks that shine,
Like suns for brightness. Nor decline
The Speedwell's azure tints to mark,
And ivy-figur'd foliage dark,
Which our sequestered homestead field
And our lov'd garden walk would yield.
Yes, pleasant then, Belov'd, to thee,
And pleasant, well thou know'st, to me
That garden walk, that homestead still,
Hard by the gently sloping hill,
Whence the old Church of Norman age
Down on the ancient Parsonage
Look'd smilingly, as if to shed
A blessing on the pastor's head.
And pleasant was the path, that wound
Slow rising to the terrac'd mound;
The brook, that through the mead pursued
Its living course; the beechen wood,
Hung on the sloping hill of chalk;
And copse, and elm-trees' lengthen'd walk,
And rock-hewn lane, were pleasant all!
And still the awakening flow'rs recall,
Which still with no unheedful eye
We pass each vernal season by,
Yes, they recall the scenes anew,
Where erst each pleasing form we knew,
The scenes which backward thought endears,
Seen thro' the gathering mist of years;
And with them many a vision raise
Of nature's charms in bygone days,
And pleasant rambles once our own
In the lov'd haunts of Buriton!
And pleasant, well thou know'st, to me
That garden walk, that homestead still,
Hard by the gently sloping hill,
Whence the old Church of Norman age
Down on the ancient Parsonage
Look'd smilingly, as if to shed
A blessing on the pastor's head.
And pleasant was the path, that wound
Slow rising to the terrac'd mound;
The brook, that through the mead pursued
Its living course; the beechen wood,
100
And copse, and elm-trees' lengthen'd walk,
And rock-hewn lane, were pleasant all!
And still the awakening flow'rs recall,
Which still with no unheedful eye
We pass each vernal season by,
Yes, they recall the scenes anew,
Where erst each pleasing form we knew,
The scenes which backward thought endears,
Seen thro' the gathering mist of years;
And with them many a vision raise
Of nature's charms in bygone days,
And pleasant rambles once our own
In the lov'd haunts of Buriton!
| The British Months | |