 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
The Rose of Glencripisdale
I
The cloud that drifts across the glen,The sun that glints upon the burn,
Looks on a vale left void of men,
And mounds of ruin crowned with fern.
84
II
The white mist climbs the mountain brow,But no blue smoke curls to the sky:
No happy noise of children now,
No shout of glee ascends on high.
III
Within the compass of the hillsA solitary sadness reigns;
The voice that all the valley fills
Is of a river that complains—
IV
Complains of busy life long stilled—A village into darkness gone—
The joy and care its homes that filled
All fled—and yet the stream runs on.
V
But as by barren rocks it flows,And sings the pensive song we know,
Behold, there blooms a garden rose,
Planted by Love, ah! long ago.
VI
The hand that tended it is dust,The heart that loved it far away,
But Nature keeps it as a trust,
And bids it bless the passing day.
85
VII
Ah, when our place knows us no more,And Time's unceasing stream glides on,
May some fair blossom on the shore
Still speak of us, when we are gone!
| Lyra Pastoralis | |