| |
| I ’VE climbed, with slippery, toiling feet, | |
| The cliff, beneath whose verge, | |
| Far down, wide-waving woodlands beat | |
| Their greenly rippling surge. | |
| |
| With rustling skirts the zephyr treads | 5 |
| The undulating trees, | |
| And azure harebells nod their heads, | |
| Rung by the passing breeze. | |
| |
| Mid fields of variegated grain | |
| The river lies asleep, | 10 |
| While the stern mountains to the plain | |
| With softened outline sweep. | |
| |
| And, hand in hand, around the vale, | |
| Clad in blue autumn-mist, | |
| They stand, that naught the spot assail | 15 |
| The loving sun hath kissed. | |
| |
| On the green hillside lowing kine | |
| Are heard, and bleating flocks, | |
| And, where the farmyard roofings shine, | |
| The shrilly crowing cocks. | 20 |
| |
| But naught of sight or sound doth mar | |
| The holy Sabbath-time, | |
| Where the white belfry gleams afar | |
| Whispers the village-chime. | |
| |
| Like a fond mother’s kiss, the scene | 25 |
| Soothes the unrestful brain; | |
| Earth’s love, so smilingly serene, | |
| Wins the sick soul from pain. | |
| |
| Here are no traces to record | |
| Man’s crimes or his distress; | 30 |
| The brooding spirit looks abroad | |
| In happy loneliness. | |
| |
| How spiritual seems the place! | |
| The blue, unclouded skies | |
| Look down, as when a thoughtful face | 35 |
| To yearning dreams replies. | |
| |
| ’T is well to kneel in pillared aisle, | |
| And swell prayer’s choral tone; | |
| But holiest feelings crave awhile | |
| To find themselves alone. | 40 |
| |
| And as the landscape, viewed from hence, | |
| Dwindles in sight and sound, | |
| While heaven, in still magnificence, | |
| Spreads broader arms around; | |
| |
| So, from this lofty mountain-goal | 45 |
| To which my feet have trod, | |
| Life’s objects lessen,—and the soul | |
| Seemeth more near to God. | |
| |
