Poems (Cook)/The Green Hill-side
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THE GREEN HILL-SIDE
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.
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 tones
Of 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.
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 tones
Of 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."
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.
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 vied
With that of merry Childhood by the Green Hill-side?
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 vied
With that of merry Childhood by the Green Hill-side?
I dwelt in that white cottage, when the Winter winds were loud
In 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.
In 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 prize
That 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.
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 prize
That 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 gleam
Of 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.
With chance of growing weary when the roses leave the bowers;
It is no fancy, just begot by some romantic gleam
Of 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-part
Of 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!"
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-part
Of 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!"