Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1822.pdf/47



The wilding broom as sweet, which gracefully Flings its long tresses like a maiden's hair Waving in yellow beauty. The red deer Crouches in safety in its secret lair; The sapphire, bird's-eye, and blue violets Mix with white daisies in the grass beneath; And in the boughs above the woodlark builds, And makes sweet music to the morning; while All day the stock-dove's melancholy notes Wail plaintively—the only sounds beside The hum of the wild bees around some trunk Of an old moss-clad oak, in which is reared Their honey palace. Where the forest ends, Stretched a wide brown heath, till the blue sky Becomes its boundary; there the only growth Are straggling thickets of the white-flowered thorn And yellow furze: beyond are the grass-fields, And of yet fresher verdure the young wheat;— These border round the village. The bright river Bounds like an arrow by, buoyant as youth Rejoicing in its strength. On the left side, Half hidden by the aged trees that time Has spared as honouring their sanctity, The old grey church is seen: its mossy walls And ivy-covered windows tell how long It has been sacred. There is a lone path Winding beside yon hill: no neighb'ring height Commands so wide a view; the ancient spire, The cottages, their gardens, and the heath, Spread far beyond, are in the prospect seen By glimpses as the greenwood screen gives way. One is now tracing it, who gazes round As each look were his last. The anxious gasp That drinks the air as every breath brought health; The hurried step, yet lingering at times, As fearful all it felt were but a dream— How much they tell of deep and inward feeling! That stranger is worn down with toil and pain, His sinewy frame is wasted, and his brow Is darkened with long suffering; yet he is Oh more than happy!—he has reached his home, And is a wanderer no more.