OH lone and lovely solitude,
Washed by the sounding sea;
Nature was in a poet's mood,
When she created thee.
How pleasant in the hour of
To wander through the shade;
The soft and golden shade which
Flings o'er thy inland glade:
The wild rose like a wreath above,
The ash-tree's fairy keys,
The aspen trembling, as if
Were whispered by the breeze;
These, or the beech's darker bough,
For canopy o'er head,
While moss and fragile flowers
An elfin pillow spread.
Here one might dream the hours away,
As if the world had
Or grief, or care, or disarray,
To darken human lot.
Yet 'tis not here that I would dwell,
Though fair the place may be,
The summer's favourite citadel:—A busier scene for me!
I love to see the human
Reflect the human mind,
To watch in every crowded
Their opposites combined.
There's more for thought in one brief
In yonder busy street,
Than all that ever leaf or
Taught in their green retreat.
Industry, intellect, and
Appear in all their pride,
The glorious force of human
Triumphs on every side.
Yet touched with meekness, for on
Is set the sign and
Of sorrow, suffering, and thrall,
Which none but own and feel;
The hearse that passes with its dead,
The homeless beggar's prayer,
Speak words of warning, and of dread,
To every passer there.
Aye beautiful the dreaming
By valleys and green fields;
But deeper feeling, higher thought,
Is what the city yields.
