In Cornwall and Across the Sea With Poems Written in Devonshire. By Douglas B. W. Sladen |
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 | In Cornwall and Across the Sea |  |
160
AT WINDSOR, NEW SOUTH WALES, IN WINTER.
There's a reek from the stalks of the Indian cern,
As they stand in their blazing sheaves,
There's a freshening breeze from the uplands borne,
And a rustle of pelting leaves,
Which will bound in a moment across the lea,
Like the flattest of pebbles thrown
For a duck and a drake on the summer sea
By the children at Brighthelmstone.
As they stand in their blazing sheaves,
There's a freshening breeze from the uplands borne,
And a rustle of pelting leaves,
Which will bound in a moment across the lea,
Like the flattest of pebbles thrown
For a duck and a drake on the summer sea
By the children at Brighthelmstone.
Were it not for the smoke from the stalks of corn
And the scent from the orange trees,
And the White-Gums, whose sober-hued tresses scorn
The chill and the toss of the breeze;
Were it not for the Wattle with golden plume,
And the She-oak with plaintive moan,
I could fancy that I was beside the tomb
Of my mother at Brighthelmstone.
And the scent from the orange trees,
And the White-Gums, whose sober-hued tresses scorn
The chill and the toss of the breeze;
Were it not for the Wattle with golden plume,
And the She-oak with plaintive moan,
I could fancy that I was beside the tomb
Of my mother at Brighthelmstone.
161
Yes! the trees, which are shedding, are English trees,
But they grow not in English land,
And the wind has the breath of an English breeze,
But it tastes not of Sussex sand,
And the heavens in winter had ne'er the hue,
And a sun such as this ne'er shone,
And the scent on the orange bloom never blew
In the gardens at Brighthelmstone.
But they grow not in English land,
And the wind has the breath of an English breeze,
But it tastes not of Sussex sand,
And the heavens in winter had ne'er the hue,
And a sun such as this ne'er shone,
And the scent on the orange bloom never blew
In the gardens at Brighthelmstone.
It is, merry the glow of an Austral morn
And the sun of its winter sky;
And the green of the burgeoning Indian corn
Is a glory on earth to eye;
But as oft as I wander and weave my song
On the balmiest day, alone,
For a moment I wish that I roamed along
On the beaches of Brighthelmstone.
And the sun of its winter sky;
And the green of the burgeoning Indian corn
Is a glory on earth to eye;
But as oft as I wander and weave my song
On the balmiest day, alone,
For a moment I wish that I roamed along
On the beaches of Brighthelmstone.
| In Cornwall and Across the Sea | |