Part 27

The following pieces were composed at twilight, in the school-room, when the leisure of the evening play-hour brought back in full tide the thoughts of home.

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.

II. THE BLUEBELL.

The Bluebell is the sweetest flower That waves in summer air: Its blossoms have the mightiest power To soothe my spirit's care.

There is a spell in purple heath Too wildly, sadly dear; The violet has a fragrant breath, But fragrance will not cheer,

The trees are bare, the sun is cold, And seldom, seldom seen; The heavens have lost their zone of gold, And earth her robe of green.

And ice upon the glancing stream Has cast its sombre shade; And distant hills and valleys seem In frozen mist arrayed.

The Bluebell cannot charm me now, The heath has lost its bloom; The violets in the glen below, They yield no sweet perfume.

But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell, 'Tis better far away; I know how fast my tears would swell To see it smile to-day.

For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fall Adown that dreary sky, And gild yon dank and darkened wall With transient brilliancy;

How do I weep, how do I pine For the time of flowers to come, And turn me from that fading shine, To mourn the fields of home!

III.

Loud without the wind was roaring Through th'autumnal sky; Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring, Spoke of winter nigh. All too like that dreary eve, Did my exiled spirit grieve. Grieved at first, but grieved not long, Sweet--how softly sweet!--it came; Wild words of an ancient song, Undefined, without a name.

"It was spring, and the skylark was singing:" Those words they awakened a spell; They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing, Nor absence, nor distance can quell.

In the gloom of a cloudy November They uttered the music of May; They kindled the perishing ember Into fervour that could not decay.

Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland, West-wind, in thy glory and pride! Oh! call me from valley and lowland, To walk by the hill-torrent's side!

It is swelled with the first snowy weather; The rocks they are icy and hoar, And sullenly waves the long heather, And the fern leaves are sunny no more.

There are no yellow stars on the mountain The bluebells have long died away From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain-- From the side of the wintry brae.