Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1822.pdf/48



How often in that fair romantic land Where he had been a soldier, he had turned From the rich groves of Spain, to think upon The oak and pine; turned from the spicy air, To sicken for his own fresh mountain breeze; And loved the night, for then familiar things, The moon and stars, were visible, and looked As they had always done, and shed sweet tears To think that he might see them shine again Over his own Gladesmuir! That silver moon, In all her perfect beauty, is now rising; The purple billows of the west have yet A shadowy glory; all beside is calm, And tender and serene—a quiet light, Which suited well the melancholy joy Of heart. As every step the light Played o'er some old remembrance; now the ray Dimpled the crystal river; now the church Had all its windows glittering from beneath The curtaining ivy. Near and more near he drew— His heart beat quick, for the next step will be Upon his father's threshold! But he paused— He heard a sweet and sacred sound—they joined In the accustomed psalm, and then they said The words of God, and, last of all, a prayer More solemn and more touching. He could hear Low sobs as it was uttered. They did pray His safety, his return, his happiness; And ere they ended he was in their arms! The wind rose up, and o'er the calm blue sky The tempest gathered, and the heavy rain Beat on the casement; but they press'd them round The blazing hearth, and sat while spoke Of the fierce battle; and all answered him With wonder, and with telling how they wept During his absence, how they numbered o'er The days for his return. Thrice hallowed shrine