Themes and Variations/A Bed in the Hills
A BED IN THE HILLS.
Surely a pleasant place to rest
For this tired soul whose cares are over,
His head upon the mountain-breast,
His cover beaded white with clover.
From the green marsh and reedy pool
I hear the music of the moorland
In lonely cry, and whispering air
That shakes the rushes’ tasselled garland.
Sometimes a bee goes droning by
On merchant’s errand.
For this tired soul whose cares are over,
His head upon the mountain-breast,
His cover beaded white with clover.
From the green marsh and reedy pool
I hear the music of the moorland
In lonely cry, and whispering air
That shakes the rushes’ tasselled garland.
Sometimes a bee goes droning by
On merchant’s errand.
What was thy story? Didst thon love?
And was thy love a curse or blessing?
The reddest cup that Circe pours,
Or sacramental joy possessing?
Did’st ever build upon the cloud
A house of purple, vain romances?
Did’st ever know thy faith betrayed ?
—The bitterest of life’s bitter chances,
The first of all the deaths we meet
In chill advances.
And was thy love a curse or blessing?
The reddest cup that Circe pours,
Or sacramental joy possessing?
Did’st ever build upon the cloud
A house of purple, vain romances?
Did’st ever know thy faith betrayed ?
—The bitterest of life’s bitter chances,
The first of all the deaths we meet
In chill advances.
Peace! peace! The summer breathes around,
Gold marsh cups bloom in every hollow,
The seeding thistle sheds her down,
And airy spears of hawkweed follow.
The quail starts from her hidden nest,
Where shaking-grass with fern embraces;
The mountains glide acress the plain
And vanish into azure spaces.
Gold marsh cups bloom in every hollow,
The seeding thistle sheds her down,
And airy spears of hawkweed follow.
The quail starts from her hidden nest,
Where shaking-grass with fern embraces;
The mountains glide acress the plain
And vanish into azure spaces.
Blue phantom-land! May Eden yet
Be somewhere in those unknown places?
The moorland spreads towards the west
Her purple waves and granite hoary;
No dream, no hint of death disturbs
Sweet nature’s story.
Be somewhere in those unknown places?
The moorland spreads towards the west
Her purple waves and granite hoary;
No dream, no hint of death disturbs
Sweet nature’s story.
‘And he who deeply slumbers here,’
—So speaks a voice, or I am dreaming—
Through all his sorrows, sin and fears,
Tasted of life and not its seeming,
He loved these plains, these morning hills,
He helped the fallen, sought his brother,
Gave and forgave; repented oft,
Nor would have changed his life for other.
He laboured not for bread alone,
His thread of faith was never broken,
Sometimes, from far beyond the stars,
He seemed to hear a message spoken,
Oh gently take this clover bloom
And leave him to the fading even,
The rivulet’s song, the visiting cloud,
The dew of heaven!
—So speaks a voice, or I am dreaming—
Through all his sorrows, sin and fears,
Tasted of life and not its seeming,
He loved these plains, these morning hills,
He helped the fallen, sought his brother,
Gave and forgave; repented oft,
Nor would have changed his life for other.
He laboured not for bread alone,
His thread of faith was never broken,
Sometimes, from far beyond the stars,
He seemed to hear a message spoken,
Oh gently take this clover bloom
And leave him to the fading even,
The rivulet’s song, the visiting cloud,
The dew of heaven!