 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
The Ochil Hills
AS SEEN FROM DUNMORE
I
Those soft green hills, how they allure the eyeTo linger hour by hour on their smooth breast,
Where tender lights and chequered shadows rest,
For ever varied with the changing sky.
Daily I gaze upon those summits high,
And grow familiar with each sunny crest,
Or track the windings of some valley blest,
That melts in dim recesses mistily.
No thought have I to win a nearer view,
Or tread those mountains with exploring feet,
Rending the airy veil of azure hue:
I leave them like imaginations sweet
And cherished, of the Beautiful and True,
Which from afar with wistful love I greet.
88
II
Ye emerald hills that to the sapphire skiesLift your smooth foreheads silent and serene,
Calmly unconscious of the noisy scene
Which lost in rolling smoke beneath you lies;
Like you above earth's discords I would rise
Superior to the sordid and the mean,
And find in lofty thoughts those summits green
All unfamiliar to the worldly wise.
And as your heavenly tops ye ofttimes screen
With veiling mists impervious to my eyes,
And yet unmoved I know ye, though unseen;
So when love's faltering vision vainly tries
To seize her Object for the clouds between,
Faith grasps invisible realities!
| Lyra Pastoralis | |