 | The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems |  |
178
THE JARDIM DE SERRA:
(THE GARDEN OF THE MOUNTAINS.)
Sweet fold of the mountains! when first from the height,
I saw thy deep forests all flooded with light,
So bright and so sudden thy loveliness smiled
That it seemed by enchantment to bloom in the wild.
I saw thy deep forests all flooded with light,
So bright and so sudden thy loveliness smiled
That it seemed by enchantment to bloom in the wild.
Thy clouds of soft umbrage lay witchingly fair
In the clear mellow depth of that crystalline air;
And through trees interlacing stretched many a glade,
Where the sunlight fell chequered by masses of shade
In the clear mellow depth of that crystalline air;
And through trees interlacing stretched many a glade,
Where the sunlight fell chequered by masses of shade
From the rich flush of garden and woodland, the eye
Roamed up to blue ridges cut sharp in the sky,
And a brook flowed deep-sunken through thickets of green,
With a murmur that pensively blent with the scene.
Roamed up to blue ridges cut sharp in the sky,
And a brook flowed deep-sunken through thickets of green,
With a murmur that pensively blent with the scene.
179
I lingered till sunset bathed all in its glow,
And the soft-stealing shadow crept up from below,
And a lone bird was warbling its latest farewell,
As the star of the gloaming rose over the dell.
And the soft-stealing shadow crept up from below,
And a lone bird was warbling its latest farewell,
As the star of the gloaming rose over the dell.
Fair valley! sleep on in the mountains' embrace,—
Thine image no time from the heart will efface;
For I hang the bright picture on Memory's wall,
And the sweet fleeting vision a wish can recall.
Thine image no time from the heart will efface;
For I hang the bright picture on Memory's wall,
And the sweet fleeting vision a wish can recall.
Yet not amid softness and peace, such as thine,
Would I dream that true happiness e'er could be mine,—
Not here, could the choice on myself be bestowed,
Not in earth's fairest spot would I fix my abode.
Would I dream that true happiness e'er could be mine,—
Not here, could the choice on myself be bestowed,
Not in earth's fairest spot would I fix my abode.
The grace and the beauty which round him may smile,
The heart of the pilgrim may sometimes beguile,—
He may linger a moment, may say it is fair,
But it is not his home,—his rest is not there!
The heart of the pilgrim may sometimes beguile,—
He may linger a moment, may say it is fair,
But it is not his home,—his rest is not there!
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