The breezy hill--though all alone--
Than the grandest monarchs proud
Who mistrust the kneeling crowd.
On a gently rising ground,
The lovely valley's farthest bound,
Bordered by an ancient wood,
The cots in thicker clusters stood;
And a church, uprose between,
Hallowing the peaceful scene.
Distance o'er its old walls threw
A soft and dim cerulean hue,
While the sun-lit gilded spire
Gleamed as with celestial fire!
I have crossed the ocean wave,
Haply for a foreign grave;
Haply never more to look
On a British hill or brook;
Haply never more to hear
Sounds unto my childhood dear;
Yet if sometimes on my soul
Bitter thoughts beyond controul
Throw a shade more dark than night,
Soon upon the mental sight
Flashes forth a pleasant ray
Brighter, holier than the day;
And unto that happy mood
All seems beautiful and good.
D.L.R.
LINES TO A LADY,
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH SOME ENGLISH FRUITS AND FLOWERS.
Green herbs and gushing springs in some hot waste
Though, grateful to the traveller's sight and taste,
Seem far less sweet and fair than fruits and flowers
That breathe, in foreign lands, of English bowers.
Thy gracious gift, dear lady, well recalls
Sweet scenes of home,--the white cot's trellised walls--
The trim red garden path--the rustic seat--
The jasmine-covered arbour, fit retreat
For hearts that love repose.
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