The wilding broom as sweet, which gracefully
Flings its long tresses like a maiden's hair
Waving in yellow beauty. The red deer
Crouches in safety in its secret lair;
The sapphire, bird's-eye, and blue violets
Mix with white daisies in the grass beneath;
And in the boughs above the woodlark builds,
And makes sweet music to the morning; while
All day the stock-dove's melancholy notes
Wail plaintively—the only sounds beside
The hum of the wild bees around some trunk
Of an old moss-clad oak, in which is reared
Their honey palace. Where the forest ends,
Stretched a wide brown heath, till the blue sky
Becomes its boundary; there the only growth
Are straggling thickets of the white-flowered thorn
And yellow furze: beyond are the grass-fields,
And of yet fresher verdure the young wheat;—
These border round the village. The bright river
Bounds like an arrow by, buoyant as youth
Rejoicing in its strength. On the left side,
Half hidden by the aged trees that time
Has spared as honouring their sanctity,
The old grey church is seen: its mossy walls
And ivy-covered windows tell how long
It has been sacred. There is a lone path
Winding beside yon hill: no neighb'ring height
Commands so wide a view; the ancient spire,
The cottages, their gardens, and the heath,
Spread far beyond, are in the prospect seen
By glimpses as the greenwood screen gives way.
One is now tracing it, who gazes round
As each look were his last. The anxious gasp
That drinks the air as every breath brought health;
The hurried step, yet lingering at times,
As fearful all it felt were but a dream—
How much they tell of deep and inward feeling!
That stranger is worn down with toil and pain,
His sinewy frame is wasted, and his brow
Is darkened with long suffering; yet he is
Oh more than happy!—he has reached his home,
And Ronald is a wanderer no more.
