THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.
When I re-visited my dear native country, after an absence of many weary
years, and a long dull voyage, my heart was filled with unutterable
delight and admiration. The land seemed a perfect paradise. It was in
the spring of the year. The blue vault of heaven--the clear atmosphere--
the balmy vernal breeze--the quiet and picturesque cattle, browsing on
luxuriant verdure, or standing knee deep in a crystal lake--the hills
sprinkled with snow-white sheep and sometimes partially shadowed by a
wandering cloud--the meadows glowing with golden butter-cups and be-
dropped with daisies--the trim hedges of crisp and sparkling holly--the
sound of near but unseen rivulets, and the songs of foliage-hidden
birds--the white cottages almost buried amidst trees, like happy human
nests--the ivy-covered church, with its old grey spire "pointing up to
heaven," and its gilded vane gleaming in the light--the sturdy peasants
with their instruments of healthy toil--the white-capped matrons
bleaching their newly-washed garments in the sun, and throwing them like
snow-patches on green slopes, or glossy garden shrubs--the sun-browned
village girls, resting idly on their round elbows at small open
casements, their faces in sweet keeping with the trellised flowers:--all
formed a combination of enchantments that would mock the happiest
imitative efforts of human art. But though the bare enumeration of the
details of this English picture, will, perhaps, awaken many dear
recollections in the reader's mind, I have omitted by far the most
interesting feature of the whole scene--the rosy children, loitering
about the cottage gates, or tumbling gaily on the warm grass.[005][006]
Two scraps of verse of a similar tendency shall follow this prose
description:--
AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE.
I stood, upon an English hill,
And saw the far meandering rill,
A vein of liquid silver, run
Sparkling in the summer sun;
While adown that green hill's side,
And along the valley wide,
Sheep, like small clouds touched with light,
Or like little breakers bright,
Sprinkled o'er a smiling sea,
Seemed to float at liberty.
Scattered all around were seen,
White cots on the meadows green.
Open to the sky and breeze,
Or peeping through the sheltering trees,
On a light gate, loosely hung,
Laughing children gaily swung;
Oft their glad shouts, shrill and clear,
Came upon the startled ear.
Blended with the tremulous bleat,
Of truant lambs, or voices sweet,
Of birds, that take us by surprise,
And mock the quickly-searching eyes.
Nearer sat a fair-haired boy,
Whistling with a thoughtless joy;
A shepherd's crook was in his hand,
Emblem of a mild command;
And upon his rounded cheek
Were hues that ripened apples streak.
Disease, nor pain, nor sorrowing,
Touched that small Arcadian king;
His sinless subjects wandered free--
Confusion without anarchy.
Happier he upon his throne.
The breezy hill--though all alone--
Than the grandest monarchs proud
Who mistrust the kneeling crowd.
On a gently rising ground,
The lovely valley's farthest bound,
Bordered by an ancient wood,
The cots in thicker clusters stood;
And a church, uprose between,
Hallowing the peaceful scene.
Distance o'er its old walls threw
A soft and dim cerulean hue,
While the sun-lit gilded spire
Gleamed as with celestial fire!
I have crossed the ocean wave,
Haply for a foreign grave;
Haply never more to look
On a British hill or brook;
Haply never more to hear
Sounds unto my childhood dear;
Yet if sometimes on my soul
Bitter thoughts beyond controul
Throw a shade more dark than night,
Soon upon the mental sight
Flashes forth a pleasant ray
Brighter, holier than the day;
And unto that happy mood
All seems beautiful and good.
D.L.R.
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