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| O PASTORAL heart of England! like a psalm | |
| Of green days telling with a quiet beat— | |
| O wave into the sunset flowing calm! | |
| O tirèd lark descending on the wheat! | |
| Lies it all peace beyond that western fold | 5 |
| Where now the lingering shepherd sees his star | |
| Rise upon Malvern? Paints an Age of Gold | |
| Yon cloud with prophecies of linkèd ease— | |
| Lulling this Land, with hills drawn up like knees, | |
| To drowse beside her implements of war? | 10 |
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| Man shall outlast his battles. They have swept | |
| Avon from Naseby Field to Severn Ham; | |
| And Evesham’s dedicated stones have stepp’d | |
| Down to the dust with Montfort’s oriflamme. | |
| Nor the red tear nor the reflected tower | 15 |
| Abides; but yet these eloquent grooves remain, | |
| Worn in the sandstone parapet hour by hour | |
| By labouring bargemen where they shifted ropes. | |
| E’en so shall man turn back from violent hopes | |
| To Adam’s cheer, and toil with spade again. | 20 |
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| Ay, and his mother Nature, to whose lap | |
| Like a repentant child at length he hies, | |
| Not in the whirlwind or the thunder-clap | |
| Proclaims her more tremendous mysteries: | |
| But when in winter’s grave, bereft of light, | 25 |
| With still, small voice divinelier whispering | |
| —Lifting the green head of the aconite,— | |
| Feeding with sap of hope the hazel-shoot— | |
| She feels God’s finger active at the root, | |
| Turns in her sleep, and murmurs of the Spring. | 30 |
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