Poems (Terry, 1861)/The two villages
THE TWO VILLAGES.
Over the river, on the hill,Lieth a village white and still;All around it the forest-treesShiver and whisper in the breeze;Over it sailing shadows goOf soaring hawk and screaming crow,And mountain grasses, low and sweet,Grow in the middle of every street.
Over the river, under the hill,Another village lieth still;There I see in the cloudy nightTwinkling stars of household light,Fires that gleam from the smithy's door,Mists that curl on the river-shore;And in the roads no grasses grow,For the wheels that hasten to and fro.
In that village on the hillNever is sound of smithy or mill; The houses are thatched with grass and flowers;Never a clock to toll the hours;The marble doors are always shat,You cannot enter in hall or hut;All the villagers lie asleep;Never a grain to sow or reap;Never in dreams to moan or sigh;Silent and idle and low they lie.
In that village under the hill,When the night is starry and still,Many a weary soul in prayerLooks to the other village there,And weeping and sighing, longs to goUp to that home from this below;Longs to sleep in the forest wild,Whither have vanished wife and child,And heareth, praying, this answer fall:"Patience! that village shall hold ye all!"