Emmonsale's Heath

IN thy wild garb of other times
I find thee lingering still;
Furze o'er each lazy summit climbs,
At nature's easy will.

Grasses that never knew a scythe,
Wave all the summer long;
And wild weed blossoms waken blythe,
That ploughmen never wrong.

Stern Industry, with stubborn toil,
And wants unsatisfied,
Still leaves untouched thy maiden soil,
In its unsullied pride.

The birds still find their summer shades
To build their nests again,
And the poor hare its rushy glade,
To hide from savage men.

Nature its family protects
In thy security,
And blooms, which love what man neglects,
Find peaceful homes in thee.

The wild rose scents the summer air,
And woodbines weave in bowers,
To glad the swain sojourning there,
And maidens gathering flowers.

Creation's steps one wandering meets
Untouched by those of man:
Things seem the same in such retreats
As when the world began.

Furze, ling, and brake, all mingling free,
And grass for ever green —
All seem the same old things to be
As they have ever been.

The brook o'er such neglected ground,
One's weariness to soothe,
Still wildly winds its lawless bound,
And chafes the pebble smooth;
Crooked and rude, as when at first
Its waters learned to stray,
And, from their mossy fountain burst,
It washed itself a way.

I've often met with places rude,
Nor failed their sweets to share,
But passed an hour with solitude,
And left my blessing there.

He that can meet the morning wind,
And o'er such places roam,
Nor leave a lingering wish behind
To make their peace his home —
His heart is dead to quiet hours,
Nor love his mind employs,
Nor poesy shares with him its flowers,
Nor solitude its joys.

I've stretched my boyish walks to thee
When May-day's paths were dry,
When leaves had nearly hid each tree,
And grass greened ankle high;
And mused the sunny hours away,
And thought of little things
That children mutter o'er their play,
When fancy tries its wings.

Joy nursed me in her happy mood,
And all life's little crowd
That haunt the valley, field, and wood,
Would sing their joys aloud.

I thought how kind that mighty Power
Must in his splendour be,
Who spread around my boyish hour
Such gleams of harmony.