Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/208

196

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