 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
255
The Hills of my Birth-place.
1837.
The hills of my birth-place I gazed on once more!
And Cheviot—their Monarch—sublime as of yore,
With the snow for his mantle, the cloud for his crown,
On the white vales beneath him looked royally down!
How my eyes grasped his bulk, till they filled, and grew dim!
How I drank every breeze that was wafted from Him!
And Cheviot—their Monarch—sublime as of yore,
With the snow for his mantle, the cloud for his crown,
On the white vales beneath him looked royally down!
How my eyes grasped his bulk, till they filled, and grew dim!
How I drank every breeze that was wafted from Him!
That moment of feeling, so painfully dear,
Which thus to my eyes sent the heart-gushing tear,
—A moment collecting and pouring the whole
Of the Past in a torrent at once on my soul—
As I stood in abstraction, absorbed, and alone,
I would not have changed for the pomp of a throne!
Which thus to my eyes sent the heart-gushing tear,
—A moment collecting and pouring the whole
Of the Past in a torrent at once on my soul—
As I stood in abstraction, absorbed, and alone,
I would not have changed for the pomp of a throne!
The torrent subsides when its sourees are drained;
The ocean rolls back when its height is attained;
And feeling, in bosoms that years cannot dull,
Must ebb from the heart when its channels are full.
Mine ebbed, but 'twas soon to flow faster—for yet
There were scenes to be viewed, there were friends to be met!
The ocean rolls back when its height is attained;
And feeling, in bosoms that years cannot dull,
Must ebb from the heart when its channels are full.
Mine ebbed, but 'twas soon to flow faster—for yet
There were scenes to be viewed, there were friends to be met!
256
The warm hearts of Wansbeck, how warm were they still!
How bright were the faces by Glen and by Till!
My Beaumont—I saw but her mountains of snow,
But knew that her broomy stream murmured below!
And Tweed—although Winter was curbing its speed,
No ice chilled the welcome I met with on Tweed!
How bright were the faces by Glen and by Till!
My Beaumont—I saw but her mountains of snow,
But knew that her broomy stream murmured below!
And Tweed—although Winter was curbing its speed,
No ice chilled the welcome I met with on Tweed!
Shall Roddam be passed? Ah! in that dearest spot,
Though I cannot forget, I am all but forgot!
Still, she has her old dell, and she has her old stream,
And a fairer to haunt them than e'er blessed my dream;
And proudly I ween that my fame shall be there,
All fresh in her greenwoods—while greenwoods are fair!
Though I cannot forget, I am all but forgot!
Still, she has her old dell, and she has her old stream,
And a fairer to haunt them than e'er blessed my dream;
And proudly I ween that my fame shall be there,
All fresh in her greenwoods—while greenwoods are fair!
Ay, my fame may be there; but O! never again
Shall I con, in her greenwoods, the rapturous strain!
For me each dear river all vainly will pour;
Old Cheviot himself I shall visit no more;
And the loved friends that dwell by those mountains and streams,
Henceforward, alas, will but people my dreams!
Shall I con, in her greenwoods, the rapturous strain!
For me each dear river all vainly will pour;
Old Cheviot himself I shall visit no more;
And the loved friends that dwell by those mountains and streams,
Henceforward, alas, will but people my dreams!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |