I ONCE was happy, when, while yet a child
I learn'd to love these upland solitudes,
And when, elastic as the mountain air,
To my light spirit care was yet unknown,
And evil unforeseen :-early it came,
And childhood scarcely past, I was condemn'd,
A guiltless exile, silently to sigh,
While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew
The contrast; and regretting, I compar'd
With the polluted smoky atmosphere
And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills,
That, to the setting sun their graceful heads
Rearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks
With her white rocks the strong impetuous tide,
When western winds the vast Atlantic urge
To thunder on the coast. Haunts of my youth!
Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet!
Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes
To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft
By scatter'd thorns; whose spring branches bore
Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb
There seeking shelter from the noonday sun:
And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf,
To look beneath upon the hollow way
While heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain,
And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind,
To case his panting team, stopp'd with a stone
The grating wheel.
Advancing higher still,
The prospect widens, and the village church
But little, o'er the lowly roofs around,
Rears its grey belfry, and its simple vane;
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in Spring,
When on each bough the rosy tinctur'd bloom
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.
For even those orchards round the Norman farms,
Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit,
Console them for the vineyards of the South,
Surpass not these.
Where woods of ash, and beech, And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot,
The upland shepherd rears his modest home;
There wanders by a little nameless stream
That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear,
Or after rain with chalky mixture grey,
But still refreshing in its shallow course
The cottage garden; most for use design'd,
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine
Mantles the little casement; yet the briar
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;
And pansies ray'd, and freak'd and mottled pinks
Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue;
There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow
Almost uncultur'd: some with dark green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson; while, in thorny moss
Enshrin'd and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.—
With fond regret I recollect e'en now
In Spring and Summer what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleas'd,
An early worshipper at Nature's shrine,
I lov'd her rudest scenes-warrens, and heaths,
And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedgerows, bordering unfrequented lanes
Bower'd with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine,
Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch
With bittersweet and bryony inweave,
And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups-
I lov'd to trace the brooks whose humid banks
Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil;
And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech,
Lending in Summer from the heats of noon
A whispering shade; while haply there reclines
Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers,
Who from the tumps, with bright green mosses clad,
Plucks the wood sorrel with its light thin leaves,
Heart-shap'd, and triply-folded, and its root
Creeping like beaded coral; or who there
Gathers, the copse's pride, anemones,
With rays like golden studs on ivory laid
Most delicate but touch'd with purple clouds,
Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow.
FROM thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly;
From the rocks, that are lash'd by their tide;
From the maid, whose cold bosom, relentless as they,
Has wreck'd my warm hopes by her pride!-
Yet lonely and rude as the scene,
Her smile to that scene could impart
A charm, that might rival the bloom of the vale— But away, thou fond dream of my heart!
From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly!
Now the blasts of the winter come on,
And the waters grow dark as they rise!
But 'tis well! they resemble the sullen disdain
That has lour'd in those insolent eyes.
Sincere were the sighs they represt,
But they rose in the days that are flown!
Ah, nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art,
My spirit is proud as thine own.
From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly!
Lo! the wings of the sea-fowl are spread
To escape the loud storm by their flight;
And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat
From the winds and the billows of night;
Like them, to the home of my youth,
Like them, to its shades I retire;
Receive me, and shield my vex'd spirit, ye groves,
From the pangs of insulted desire!
To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu!
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