 | My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays |  |
xix
RUSTIC LINES,
UPON RETURNING TO THE BELOVED HAMLET OF DORCHESTER
Home of my heart! thy tranquil scene
Of plains—in early herbage green;
Thy near hills bordering bold and wild,
The temper of thy breezes mild—
Thine ocean blue as beauty's eye,
And calm as clouds bright hovering nigh,
Ere twilight breathes her parting sigh.
Of plains—in early herbage green;
Thy near hills bordering bold and wild,
The temper of thy breezes mild—
Thine ocean blue as beauty's eye,
And calm as clouds bright hovering nigh,
Ere twilight breathes her parting sigh.
On—the brisk gale, when mid-day clear
Wakes the first floweret of the year,
Bending as if that gale to greet,
Like captive at her conqueror's feet!
While the tossed waves exulting seem
To love the sun's approaching beam.—
These all are mine—ere the young day
Warms in the bashful blush of May.
Wakes the first floweret of the year,
Bending as if that gale to greet,
Like captive at her conqueror's feet!
While the tossed waves exulting seem
To love the sun's approaching beam.—
These all are mine—ere the young day
Warms in the bashful blush of May.
Thy vernal bird, with song of glee,
Recalls thy fugitive to thee;
The rustic tones of truth to find,
The smile, that speaks the welcome kind;
Or the quick eye, which seems to say,
The steps of labour must not stay;
To all I come—for all are dear
To her, whose whole of life rests here.
Recalls thy fugitive to thee;
The rustic tones of truth to find,
The smile, that speaks the welcome kind;
Or the quick eye, which seems to say,
The steps of labour must not stay;
To all I come—for all are dear
To her, whose whole of life rests here.
Sweet Hamlet! since no wrong invades
The quiet of thine elm-row shades,
I come—beneath those shades to rest,
And in that quiet to be blest.
The quiet of thine elm-row shades,
xx
And in that quiet to be blest.
Sweet Hamlet! to thy breast of bloom
In singleness of soul I come!
The aching of my cares to hide,
And dead to all that breathe beside.
For in thy bounties thou art kind,
To the world-wearied nerve of mind;
And most to her who dares not own,
How much she feels in crowds alone.
In singleness of soul I come!
The aching of my cares to hide,
And dead to all that breathe beside.
For in thy bounties thou art kind,
To the world-wearied nerve of mind;
And most to her who dares not own,
How much she feels in crowds alone.
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