The Hermitage of Marban

In a Wood a lodge I own,
Of none, save God, beholden:
Here an Ash, a Hazel there
By one great Oak enfolden.

Two door-posts which heath entwines
Lithe Woodbines tie together;
Mast in mellow glades, at need,
Feed swine in wintry weather.

Small my lodge is, nor too small,
Its all known paths are pleasant;
Roof-high, sings my Lady wise,
In black-bird guise at present.

Stags of Droma Rolach leap
Down the steep clear-bank water,
From the height, afar I see
Three Fields of Ancient Slaughter.

Lowly, little, hidden, home,
A Jewel-Rose possessing:
That which now I may not find
Time yet shall bring in blessing.

The veiling hair of tall Yews there
Lift the sky;
Scene surprising, green Oaks rising
Storms defy.

An Apple-tree, full-fruited, free,
My Hostel stands,
And nutty boughs bend to the house
For willing hands.

By the mountain, one fair fountain —
Drink of Kings!
There mid cresses, through ivy tresses,
The bright brook springs.

Round it wander, here and yonder,
Badgers gray,
Swine carousing, tall deer browsing,
Kids at play.

Where 'tis nesting these are questing,
Foxes come,
Small the riot, soft and quiet,
Happy home!

Princes royal, lovely, loyal,
Seek me out:
Water cleanest, leafage greenest,
Speckled trout.

Ruddy rowans, golden gowans,
Sloes are there;
Berry bowers, food in showers,
Flagstone bare.

Honey even God has given,
Eggs and roots,
Sweet Strawberries, Apples, Cherries,
Fair-hued fruits.

Red and purple blooms of Whortle
Claim applause,
Wild herbs verdant blend with ardent
Hips and Haws!

A nut-mead drink, where Blue-bells blink
'Mid pliant Rush,
Where saplings dangle, a pleasant tangle
Of briar and bush.

When Summer strews its cloak of hues,
Then the dells
Yield earth nuts, mint and marjoram
And fragrant smells.

Music, song, from red-breast throng
Thrill the boughs,
Thrushes wooing, cushats cooing,
Above my house.

Bees hum o'er us, crickets chorus —
Earth's small choirs!
Wild geese soaring, torrents roaring
At Samain's fires.

In hazel brightly, small wrens sprightly
Shake with song,
Black-cap, pecker, flit and flicker,
A tuneful throng.

White wings fare on, sea-gulls, heron;
Cuckoos breathe,
The plover's crying — no sad sighing!
O'er red heath.

Kine are lowing, Summer's glowing, —
O Time of Times!
Not tiring, toiling, marching, moiling,
In crowded climes.

A Voice of breezes the forest seizes —
That great green cloud!
Rivers falling, cygnets calling,
Low tunes and loud.

My cess of beauty they give in duty,
No hireling tryste;
Not less loyal than tribute royal,
In sight of Christ.

Thine the pleasure of priceless treasure
Peerless, proud;
Thanks I render for what the Sender
My Christ allowed.

Free from jar of strife or war,
My home has stood,
Thanks, my King! for every thing
For each is good.