 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
O these are not mine own Hills.
1821.
[_]
[On arriving in Craven, whither I had come on foot, and seeing the hills—so like, and yet so unlike the Northumbrian mountains—I became seized with a home-sickness the most intense. I fancied myself banished to a far-distant land; and if the reader, who may be inclined to smile at the idea, will reflect that railways then were not; that stage coaches were above my means; and that my estimate of distance was founded on my power as a pedestrian; he will see that the idea was not so very absurd.]
O these are not mine own hills,
Fair though their verdure be;
Distant far mine own hills,
That used to look so kind on me!
These may have their rock and cairn,
Their blooming heath, and waving fern—
But O! they stand so strange and stern,
And never seem like friends to me
Fair though their verdure be;
Distant far mine own hills,
That used to look so kind on me!
These may have their rock and cairn,
Their blooming heath, and waving fern—
But O! they stand so strange and stern,
And never seem like friends to me
20
“Where, prythee, rise thine own hills?
In France or brighter Italy?
What fruit is on thine own hills,
That we must deem so fair to see?
Grows, in Summer's constant shine,
The orange there, or purpling vine?
Does myrtle with the rose entwine
On mountains so beloved by thee?”
In France or brighter Italy?
What fruit is on thine own hills,
That we must deem so fair to see?
Grows, in Summer's constant shine,
The orange there, or purpling vine?
Does myrtle with the rose entwine
On mountains so beloved by thee?”
All bleak along mine own hills
The heather waves, the bracken free;
The fruit upon mine own hills
Is scarlet hip and blaeberry.
And yet I would not them exchange,
'Mid gay Italian scenes to range;
No! vine-clad hills would look as strange,
As stern, and lone, as these to me!
The heather waves, the bracken free;
The fruit upon mine own hills
Is scarlet hip and blaeberry.
And yet I would not them exchange,
'Mid gay Italian scenes to range;
No! vine-clad hills would look as strange,
As stern, and lone, as these to me!
In boyhood, on mine own hills,
I plucked the flower, and chased the bee
In youth, upon mine own hills,
I wooed my loves by rock and tree:
'Tis hence my love—to tears—they claim;
And, let who will the weakness blame,
But when, in sleep, I dream of them—
I would not wake aught else to see!
I plucked the flower, and chased the bee
In youth, upon mine own hills,
I wooed my loves by rock and tree:
'Tis hence my love—to tears—they claim;
And, let who will the weakness blame,
But when, in sleep, I dream of them—
I would not wake aught else to see!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |