 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
32
I have heard of Fair Climes.
1822
I have heard of fair climes lying nearer the sun.
Where the summer and autumn are blent into one,
Where the flowers in unfailing succession come forth,
And brighter of hue than the flowers of the north,
Where the fruit and the blossom adorn the same tree—
Yet Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me.
Where the summer and autumn are blent into one,
Where the flowers in unfailing succession come forth,
And brighter of hue than the flowers of the north,
Where the fruit and the blossom adorn the same tree—
Yet Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me.
I have heard of the azure enchanting all eyes,
The deep, cloudless blue of Italian skies—
But give me the wild heaven, now gloomy, now gay,
That with shadow and sunshine stills varies the day,
Forming scenes which a painter or bard loves to see—
And Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me!
The deep, cloudless blue of Italian skies—
But give me the wild heaven, now gloomy, now gay,
That with shadow and sunshine stills varies the day,
Forming scenes which a painter or bard loves to see—
And Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me!
Can lands where the summer and autumn entwine,
Exhibit a contrast more pleasing than thine?
Springs smiles in yon vale where the river is rolled,
And Autumn has hung yonder mountain with gold;
Yon beech tree stands red on an emerald lea—
O, Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me!
Exhibit a contrast more pleasing than thine?
Springs smiles in yon vale where the river is rolled,
And Autumn has hung yonder mountain with gold;
Yon beech tree stands red on an emerald lea—
O, Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me!
33
Why talk of Circassia as Beauty's domain?
Or why of the dark-glancing daughters of Spain?
We have maids that might realise dreams of above,
Too lovely—if aught were too lovely—for love,
As sweet as their Spring, as their mountain-winds free—
Yes! Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me!
Or why of the dark-glancing daughters of Spain?
We have maids that might realise dreams of above,
Too lovely—if aught were too lovely—for love,
As sweet as their Spring, as their mountain-winds free—
Yes! Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |