How well I know that long ago, ere Reason oped her eyes,My spirit ask'd for "something more," with deep and earnest sighs;How well I know that Childhood's glow flush'd redder on my brow,When wanderers came home at night, and brought a forest bough.The town-born child had heard of streams, of woods and giant trees,Of golden sunshine on the sward, and perfume on the breeze;And visions floated round me, that a city could not hide,Of cottages and valleys, and a Green Hill-side.
Oh! how my young wish coveted a distant, fairy land!I long'd to grasp the wild flowers, that I read of, in my hand;I long'd to see the ringdove's nest, and craved to hear the tonesOf the sheep-bell on the mountains, and the brooklet on the stones;And if by chance a butterfly came flitting through the street,The thought to chase its pretty wings ne'er stirred my tiny feet;But I wish'd that it would take me on its journey far and wide,And let me share its home-place by some Green Hill-side.
The wondrous tales of diamond mines, of silver and of gold—The stories of kings' palaces, that elder playmates told—Not all the treasures of the earth, nor pearl-drops of the sea,Could serve to form the Paradise so coveted by me;But when they spoke of shady lanes, and woods where they had been,Of crimson foxgloves they had pull'd, and bright fields they had seen;Then, then, uprose the eager voice that ever loudly cried,"'Tis these I love! Oh! give to me the Green Hill-side."
It was a deep, an inborn love, and Fate at last was kind;It gave me all my childish soul had ever hoped to find;Fresh meadows and fair valleys, where a pebbled stream ran through,Where bleating flocks were herded, and the brake and hawthorn grew.I trod the open land of Joy my passion long had sought;With ecstasy too glad for words, almost too wild for thought;Till lulled in peaceful happiness, my song, with gushing tide,Ran chiming with the mill-stream by the Green Hill-side.
That cottage with its walls so white, and gabled roof so quaint,Oh! was it not a chosen thing for artists' hands to paint?With casement windows, where the vine festoon'd the angled panes;And trellised porch, where woodbine wove its aromatic chains.Ah! Memory yet keeps the spot with fond and holy care;I know the shape of every branch that flung its shadow there;And 'mid the varied homes I've had—oh! tell me which has viedWith that of merry Childhood by the Green Hill-side?
I dwelt in that white cottage, when the Winter winds were loudIn singing funeral dirges over Nature's snowy shroud;When my breath was turn'd to crystal stars upon the casement lead;When the drift choked up the threshold, and the robin tumbled, dead;I dwelt there when the rains came down, and mist was on the height;When brown leaves, dark and desolate, brought on December's night;But still I climb'd the open slope, and still I watch'd the tide,And loved the gabled cottage by the Green Hill-side.
I have a hope—I have a prayer, now living in my breast;They keep beside me everywhere, and haunt my hours of rest:I have a star of future joy, that shines with worshipp'd ray;That rises in my dreams at night, and in my thoughts by day.My doting wish, my passion-shrine invokes no worldly prizeThat Fortune's noisy wheel can give to charm Ambition's eyes:The grand, emblazon'd gifts of place, let those who will divide,I long for some white cottage by a Green Hill-side.
It is no fever'd, summer whim that asks for fields and flowers,With chance of growing weary when the roses leave the bowers;It is no fancy, just begot by some romantic gleamOf silver moonlight peeping down upon a pleasant stream.Ah, no! I loved the tree and flower, with Childhood's early zeal,And tree and flower yet hold the power to bid my spirit kneel;I know what cities offer up to Pleasure, Pomp, and Pride;But still I crave the cottage by a Green Hill-side.
Oh, Fortune! only bless me thus! 'tis all I ask below;I do not need the gold that serves for luxury and show;A quiet home, where birds will come, with freedom, fields, and trees;My earliest hope, my latest prayer, have coveted but these.It is a love that cannot change—it is the essence-partOf all that prompts my toiling brain, or stirs my glowing heart;And doting Age will say the same that dreaming Childhood cried—"Oh, give me but a cottage by some Green Hill-side!"
