27. WHERE A ROMAN VILLA STOOD, ABOVE FREIBURG
On alien ground, breathing an alien air, A Roman stood, far from his ancient home, And gazing, murmured, "Ah, the hills are fair, But not the hills of Rome!"
Descendant of a race to Romans-kin, Where the old son of Empire stood, I stand.
The self-same rocks fold the same valley in, Untouched of human hand.
Over another shines the self-same star, Another heart with nameless longing fills, Crying aloud, "How beautiful they are, But not our English hills!"
_Mary E. Coleridge._
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28. HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS
He walked in glory on the hills; We dalesmen envied from afar The heights and rose-lit pinnacles Which placed him nigh the evening star.
Upon the peaks they found him dead; And now we wonder if he sighed For our low gra.s.s beneath his head, For our rude huts, before he died.
_William Canton._
29. IN THE HIGHLANDS
In the highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens Quiet eyes; Where essential silence cheers and blesses, And for ever in the hill-recesses _Her_ more lovely music Broods and dies.
O to mount again where erst I haunted; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, And the low green meadows Bright with sward; And when even dies, the million-tinted, And the night has come, and planets glinted, Lo, the valley hollow Lamp-bestarred!
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O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath; Lo! for there, among the flowers and gra.s.ses, Only the mightier movement sounds and pa.s.ses; Only winds and rivers, Life and death.
_Robert Louis Stevenson._
30. IN CITY STREETS
Yonder in the heather there"s a bed for sleeping, Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet.
Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, Homeless in the City, poor among the poor!
London streets are gold--ah, give me leaves a-glinting "Midst grey d.y.k.es and hedges in the autumn sun!
London water"s wine, poured out for all unstinting-- G.o.d! For the little brooks that tumble as they run!
Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells!
Oh, my eye"s an ache to see the brown burns flowing Through the peaty soil and tinkling heather-bells.
_Ada Smith._
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31. MARGARET"S SONG
Too soothe and mild your lowland airs For one whose hope is gone: I"m thinking of a little tarn, Brown, very lone.
Would now the tall swift mists could lay Their wet grasp on my hair, And the great natures of the hills Round me friendly were.
In vain!--For taking hills your plains Have spoilt my soul, I think, But would my feet were going down Towards the brown tarn"s brink.
_Lascelles Abercrombie._
82. TO S. R. CROCKETT
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how!
Grey rec.u.mbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure:
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Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call; Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, And hear no more at all.
_Robert Louis Stevenson._
33. CHILLINGHAM
I
Through the sunny garden The humming bees are still; The fir climbs the heather, The heather climbs the hill.
The low clouds have riven A little rift through.
The hill climbs to heaven, Far away and blue.
II
O the high valley, the little low hill, And the cornfield over the sea, The wind that rages and then lies still, And the clouds that rest and flee!