University of Virginia Library


51

PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES

Dear treasure-house of rich content,
Calm shelter from care's anxious wind;
Here life is clean and innocent,
And all the plagues that fill
The noisome town are left ten leagues behind
Yon guardian hill.
Beneath thy lowly roof abide
Untroubled sleep, unconscious health;
Never the foot of worldly pride
Profanes the threshold's moss;
No vain pretence is here, no hope of wealth,
No fear of loss.
Here toil is dignified and blest,
For Nature's gracious self employs
My willing hands; she gives deep rest
For guerdon, days secure
From vulgar strife, and luminous with joys
Serene and pure.

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Here all wild things exult; the dawn
Still trembles with the nightingale
When the lark wakes the drowsy lawn;
The yaffel laughs along
The spinney, and the cuckoo fills the vale
With lusty song.
The shy birds here are bold; nuthatch
And wryneck find a safe retreat;
The martin warm beneath the thatch
Chuckles his cheerful love,
While from the copse purrs in the noonday heat
The hidden dove.
Here roses can rejoice; no reek
Of Man's dark prison-house degrades
Their purity. The thrush sits meek
In motherhood, her spouse
Fluting his rapture where the lilac shades
Their little house.
‘Small house, great quietness’; so runs
The portal's legend, half concealed
By leafage; there the jasmine suns
Its earliest gold; below,
The crocus-cluster first uplifts the shield
Of melting snow.

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Nor even Winter lacks the grace
Of flowers; the doughty aconite
Welcomes the frost with cheerful face;
The snowdrop blades disclose
Their guarded pearls, and Christmas brings to light
Its own pure rose;
While many a tender alien, born
In lonely mountain-dell, unfolds
Her beauty to the bright-eyed morn,
And sips the taintless rain
By warm airs wafted from the gentle wolds
O'er Severn's plain.
Here two fair princes, May and June,
Delight to meet; the royal field
With cloth of cowslip-gold is strewn,
Dappled with purple shades
Of clouds becalmed, that kiss the dreaming weald
And bless the glades.
Hither escaping from the grime
And din of hideous streets, I feast
On Nature's song and silence, climb
The hill at dawn, to see
The gold belt of the crimson-skirted east
Gleam through the tree;

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Or search the brow of eve, to catch
In opal depths the first faint beat
Of Vega's fiery heart; and watch
The long decline of day
From beechen aisles, whose polished columns greet
The last low ray.
Then, if the year be ripe, await
O'er woods, with glorious blazon tinged,
The solemn progress of the great
Red moon, through gold and green
To silver, till each slumbering thatch is fringed
With mellow sheen;
While all around the fragrant night
Breathes of ripe fruit and garnered corn,
And now and then from distant height
There floats the voice of sheep,
With echoes of the brown owl's plaintive horn
Where orchards sleep;
Or wake on winter morns to find
The plain a phantom sea of mist,
Isled with dim trees, whereon half-blind
The tearful eye of heaven
Broods, through a veil by little rainbows kissed
And light airs riven.

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Amid these peaceful wolds man yet
May dwell in beauty; church and farm,
Cottage and ancient hall, have met
In one grey brotherhood,
Now bare to upland blast, now nestled warm
In sheltering wood.
Here bygone ages linger; high
On yonder ridge the Age of Stone
Upreared its giant ossuary;
The grim centurion strode
Home to those crumbling walls, along that lone
Unbending road;
Behind those daisied banks a lord
Of desperate Britain stood at bay;
From that soft coombe the Saxon sword
Swayed all the Mercian realm;
Beneath yon tower the Norman knelt to pray;
That friendly elm
O'erlooks a field which once was drenched
With rain of the two Roses' blood;
A captive monarch's light was quenched
Where yonder ivied keep
Hears Severn, swollen with many a tribute flood,
Pant for the deep.

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Noble the spacious drama viewed
From Cotswold, whose wide wing outspread
Doth from the clamorous world seclude
The beauty of my home;
There oft companioned by the mighty dead
I love to roam,
And bearing to my simple hearth
Rich store of memories, gaily sup
With makers of immortal mirth,
Or wrapt in dream possess
My full-fed soul in peace, and quaff the cup
Of quietness;
While, from beyond those classic hills
That cradled English song, sunset
With chords of silent music fills
The heavens; till all grows pale,
And twilight spreads her purple coverlet
Athwart the vale.
Here with the comrades of my choice
I share the liberal fellowship
Of Nature, catch the still small voice,
And weave the rustic rhyme,
Content that lightly through love's fingers slip
The sands of time;

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Content to plough no more, but reap
The harvest of a thankful mind;
To grow in wonder; till the sleep
Which is God's last caress
Close all, and in the grave's small house I find
Great quietness.