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I.
A LITTLE while, a little
while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can
smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.
Where wilt thou go, my harassed
heart--
What thought, what scene
invites thee now
What spot, or near or far
apart,
Has rest for thee, my weary
brow?
There is a spot, 'mid barren
hills,
Where winter howls, and
driving rain;
But, if the dreary tempest
chills,
There is a light that warms
again.
The house is old, the trees
are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's
dome;
But what on earth is half
so dear--
So longed for--as the hearth
of home?
The mute bird sitting on
the stone,
The dank moss dripping from
the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the
walks o'ergrown,
I love them--how I love
them all!
Still, as I mused, the naked
room,
The alien firelight died
away;
And from the midst of cheerless
gloom,
I passed to bright, unclouded
day.
A little and a lone green
lane
That opened on a common
wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue
chain
Of mountains circling every
side.
A heaven so clear, an earth
so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed
an air;
And, deepening still the
dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding
everywhere.
THAT was the scene, I knew
it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's
sweep,
That, winding o'er each
billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of
wandering sheep.
Could I have lingered but
an hour,
It well had paid a week
of toil;
But Truth has banished Fancy's
power:
Restraint and heavy task
recoil.
Even as I stood with raptured
eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep
and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted
by,
And back came labour, bondage,
care.
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