The Country Retreat

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.