Of the remote horizon, wavy lines
Of hills, which might almost assume the style
And dignity of mountains, mark the site.
Of my paternal home, whereto, so oft
As summer's fervour or midwinter's frost
Restored our liberty, from school return'd,
Once more I mingled with the noisy group
Of brothers and of sisters, who since then
Have parted, all upon their several paths
Of destiny or duty, through the world
To fare as Heaven may guide them. One, alas!
Slumbers already, many a fathom deep,
Beneath the stormy and tumultuous swell
Of the "still vext Bermoothes." One, cut off
In childhood's ripest bloom, my earliest song
In fitting strains bewail'd; a third, the heat
Of India's burning suns is withering fast,
Albeit in youth's maturest lustihood.
A fourth, who went from home with gallant port,
Wearing a soldier's frankness on his brow,
And in his young heart proudly cherishing
A soldier's noblest zeal, had found a home,
When last he wrote, near Afric's southern cape;
And there, in tranquil and inglorious ease,
Forsaking the plumed host and tented field
For peaceful tillage and the hunter's sport,
Was fashioning his idle sword and spear
To ploughshare and to pruning-hook, content
To learn war's trade no more, but to forego
Its present honours and its future hopes
For liberty and rest.
Once echoing to the loud obstreperous mirth
Of ten wild boys and girls, now in their age
My parents dwell alone, from time to time
Gladden'd and cheer'd by visits few and brief
Of children and of grandchildren, whose sports
Haply recall the days of other years
When we all dwelt about them, and diffuse
A gleam of pleasant light athwart the gloom.
(If gloom indeed it be) which settles now
On all that large remainder of the year
Mark'd by our absence. Visits such as these
Should constitute, methinks, a last firm bond
Of sympathy between their souls and Earth,
And cherish still even in their heart of hearts
The light of earthly joy, sweetening the eve
Of this their mortal day, and with the hope,
Now brightening hour by hour, of fairer worlds,
And a more rich inheritance to come,
Connecting the remembrance of past bliss
And sense of present comfort, feeding thus
The incense of perpetual gratitude
Breathed from their hearts to Heaven; nor let my
Forget how large a debt of thankfulness
Is due to Him, who to his other gifts,
Unnumber'd and unmeasured, adds this too,
That from my pastoral dwelling, by the banks
Of Avon, I can still, from year to year,
With the beloved co-partner of my joys
And soother of my sorrows, and with those
Dear babes who fill our happy home with smiles,
Revisit my paternal roof, and cheer
Their hearts who gave me being with the sound Of children's voices, and make glad their hearth With the blest sight of our full happiness.
Such be our task to-morrow; here to-day
We tarry with most kind, though late-found friends,
Whose venerable mansion at the foot
Of this fair hill, in all the state grotesque
Of England's olden architecture, lifts
Its checquer'd front, with timbers huge inlaid,
And fair white plaister; and with gables tall
Surmounted, from whose antique windows quaint
The eye looks through a stately avenue
Of elms, which have outlived the chance and change Of centuries, into a verdant plain
With woods and waving corn-fields interspersed ;
Meet dwelling for a family most rich
In all that constitutes the genuine worth
Of our provincial gentry. In that house
A pleasant group of friends is gather'd now
In mirthful converse and communion bland
Of thought and feeling; one most dear to me,
And many to each other scarce less dear;
Brothers and sisters, some in youth's full prime,
And some in childhood's tenderest innocence,
Link'd firmly each to each by mutual ties
Of firm affection, and beneath the eye
Of one who wears upon her stately brow
The stamp and impress of true ladyhood,
And in her heart the wisdom and the love
Of English mothers, train'd with holiest care
To exercise of virtues such as thrive
And blossom best by England's own firesides,
And in the breath of her free atmosphere :
And one there is whom nature hath endow'd
With voice and soul of melody, than whom
The thrush and blackbird sing no richer strains,
Nor with more natural fervour gushing forth
From the heart's hidden founts; and yet hath art
Fulfill'd in her its perfect work, nor oft
On the fastidious ear of critic fall
Notes warbled with more nice and finish'd skill
Than those which flow, unforced and uncontroll'd, From her melodious utterance.
By nature and fine art alike endued
With varied powers of song, potent to lull
The charmed sense, or raise the enraptured soul
To loftiest ecstasy, who yet dispel
Their strong enchantments by ill-timed caprice
And wayward affectation; marring still
Our pleasure and the triumphs of their art
By most preposterous vanity, which yields,
With feign'd reluctance, an ill-graced assent
To what it longs to grant, until desire,
Too long deferr'd, loses its poignancy,
And chill'd enjoyment sickens. Unlike these,
The maid of whom I speak unlocks, with free
And liberal grace, her floodgates of sweet sound,
And pours, at will, on our insatiate sense
Rich streams of never-dying melody;
Neither dissembling, with ill-acted show
Of modest self-disparagement, the worth
And richness of her gifts, nor on our choice
Obtruding them unask'd, but with the pure
And simple kindness of a natural heart,
Imparting to our needs her special share
Of nature's dispensations, breathing thus
An atmosphere around her of sweet mirth
And universal kindliness; nor yet
Disdains she from the heights of sacred song,
Or the rich warblings of Italian art,
Into the lowliest regions to descend
Of homely music, to the simple taste
Of childhood now attuning her sweet voice
In laugh-provoking ballads, and again
With some pathetic lay from Scottish land,
Which breathes the fervour of her own full heart,
Filling our eyes with tears.
That gentle songstress, whose remember'd strains
I trust shall haunt my sense in future years,
When the "rude shocks and buffets of the world,"
And long experience of life's daily ills,
Make Memory's stores more precious.
Below me, in the hill's green winding paths,
The voices of my children, in wild mirth
Through intertangled boughs in search of me,
Their way exploring to this yew tree bower
In which I sit and muse, protected well
By its dark shade from the oppressive beams
Of the meridian sun, to my weak eyes
Fraught with sharp pain and inflammation dire,
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