Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart--
What thought, what scene invites thee now What spot, or near or far apart, Has rest for thee, my weary brow?
There is a spot, 'mid barren hills, Where winter howls, and driving rain;But, if the dreary tempest chills, There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare, Moonless above bends twilight's dome;But what on earth is half so dear--
So longed for--as the hearth of home?
The mute bird sitting on the stone, The dank moss dripping from the wall, The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, I love them--how I love them all!
Still, as I mused, the naked room, The alien firelight died away;And from the midst of cheerless gloom, I passed to bright, unclouded day.
A little and a lone green lane That opened on a common wide;A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain Of mountains circling every side.
A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;And, deepening still the dream-like charm, Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.
THAT was the scene, I knew it well;I knew the turfy pathway's sweep, That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.
Could I have lingered but an hour, It well had paid a week of toil;But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
Restraint and heavy task recoil.
Even as I stood with raptured eye, Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear, My hour of rest had fleeted by, And back came labour, bondage, care.
II. THE BLUEBELL.
The Bluebell is the sweetest flower That waves in summer air:
Its blossoms have the mightiest power To soothe my spirit's care.
There is a spell in purple heath Too wildly, sadly dear;The violet has a fragrant breath, But fragrance will not cheer, The trees are bare, the sun is cold, And seldom, seldom seen;The heavens have lost their zone of gold, And earth her robe of green.
And ice upon the glancing stream Has cast its sombre shade;And distant hills and valleys seem In frozen mist arrayed.