Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
Shooter’s Hill
By Robert Bloomfield (1766–1823)H
The mountain-top or quiet vale,
Or deign o’er humbler hills to rove
On showery June’s dark southwest gale?
If so, I ’ll meet all blasts that blow,
With silent step, but not forlorn;
Though, goddess, at thy shrine I bow,
And woo thee each returning morn.
The joyous bird his rapture tells,
Amidst the half-excluded light,
That gilds the foxglove’s pendent bells;
Where cheerly up this bold hill’s side
The deepening groves triumphant climb:
In groves Delight and Peace abide,
And Wisdom marks the lapse of time.
To keep the throne of reason clear,
Amidst fresh air to breathe or die,
I took my staff and wandered here.
Suppressing every sigh that heaves,
And coveting no wealth but thee,
I nestle in the honeyed leaves,
And hug my stolen liberty.
Along to Erith’s ivied spire,
I start, with strength and hope renewed,
And cherish life’s rekindling fire.
Now measure vales with straining eyes,
Now trace the churchyard’s humble names;
Or climb brown heaths, abrupt that rise,
And overlook the winding Thames.
Sweet health, I seek thee! hither bring
Thy balm that softens human ills;
Come, on the long-drawn clouds that fling
Their shadows o’er the Surrey hills.
Yon green-topt hills, and far away
Where late as now I freedom stole,
And spent one dear delicious day
On thy wild banks, romantic Mole.
Of London’s congregated cloud,
The dark-browed wood, the headlong steep,
And valley-paths without a crowd!
Here, Thames, I watch thy flowing tides,
Thy thousand sails am proud to see;
For where the Mole all silent glides
Dwells peace,—and peace is wealth to me!