The bard, and minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hills of my childhood—oh, the ever lovely!
Where, in happy boyhood, breeze-like I stray'd;
Glad were my wanderings o'er your wastes of heather,
Paths of my youth!

180

There dwelt the eagle, there dwelt the wild deer;
There dwelt the raven in his towering home;
There swept the gled-hawk, like a meteor darting
Swift on his prey.

There, lingering low, the clouds swept your summits;
Roll'd the harsh thunder, shriek'd the loud blast;
Dash'd the fierce cataract, loos'd from its caverns—
Voices of dread!

Blue were the heavens in the days of my boyhood;
The mild summer breezes bore fragrance and balm;
And the lark's joyous music ascended the azure—
Songs of the spheres!

Oh, the rare mosses! oh, the sweet wild-flowers!
Rich golden furze, and the bright purple heath!
Plenteous your pastures, glad your summer beauty,
Homes of the bee.

Vales, verdant glades, and happy human dwellings,
Crowd like spots of sunshine round the traveller's path;
Old hoary cairns record the hero's grave-house,
Rear'd where he fell.

With his fleecy flocks still broods the glad shepherd,
Idly reposing in the blaze of noon;
Or, in rude numbers, paints his maid's perfections—
Pride of the vale.

181

Joy of youthful angler, at the early dawning,
O'er your springy pathways, bounding apace,
To tempt his rapid prey among the mountain torrents,
Golden and bright!

There the full evening greets him returning—
Pyre on pyre of glory in the western clouds;
Whilst heaven's blazing windows flash upon his spirit
Visions of bliss!

You, oh, ye woods, where the hazel and holly,
Far-spreading oak-tree, and wild-ash abide,
Gladly I greet your dear shades, your rich verdure,
Prized as of old.

Here the brown linnet sings—gladdest of songsters;
Here float the breezes, like whispers from heaven;
Here grow fair wild-flowers, the richest, the rarest,
Fragrant as frail!

Here, in early youth, rejoiced I to wander—
Love for my paradise, Hope for my guide:
Glazed are those angel-eyes, hush'd is that seraph-voice,
Sweetest on earth.

Fields and rich pastures, your treasures I welcome—
Home of the butter-cups, daisies, I sought:
Still wealth and plenty your hedgerows encircle,
Spots of delight.

182

Proudly, dear mountains, your fronts tower in heather;
Calmly the groves wave their locks in the breeze;
Freshly the meadows, deep vales, and wide pastures,
Bask in the sun.

Ever, oh ever, in splendour and beauty,
Flourish, dear Nature! the worshipp'd, the true;
And when Death's fingers freeze up mine eyelids,
Make me thine own!

And 'mid this vale of my kinsfolk, my comrades—
Here, where the loved and the cherish'd repose—
Here, where the abbey salutes the last sunbeams,
Grant me a grave!