 | Household Verses |  |
39
SELBORNE.
A SONNET, TO THE SAME.
That quiet vale! it greets my vision
now,
As when we saw it, one autumnal day,
A cloudless sun brightening each feathery spray
Of woods that clothed the Hanger to its brow:
Woods—whose luxuriance hardly might allow
A peep at that small hamlet, as it lay,
Bosomed in orchard-plots and gardens gay,
With here and there a field, perchance, to plough.
Delightful valley! still I own thy claim;
As when I gave thee one last lingering look,
And felt thou wast indeed a fitting nook
For HIM to dwell in, whose undying name
Has unto thee bequeathed its humble fame,
Pure, and imperishable,—like his book!
As when we saw it, one autumnal day,
A cloudless sun brightening each feathery spray
Of woods that clothed the Hanger to its brow:
Woods—whose luxuriance hardly might allow
A peep at that small hamlet, as it lay,
Bosomed in orchard-plots and gardens gay,
With here and there a field, perchance, to plough.
Delightful valley! still I own thy claim;
As when I gave thee one last lingering look,
And felt thou wast indeed a fitting nook
For HIM to dwell in, whose undying name
Has unto thee bequeathed its humble fame,
Pure, and imperishable,—like his book!
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