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42
THE VALE OF LONSDALE,
LANCASHIRE.
I could not dwell here, it is all too fair,
Too sunny, too luxuriant; those green fields,
With the rich shadows of their old oak trees,
Or the more graceful sweep of the light ash;
Fields where the skylark builds amid the grass,
Trees where the thrush's nest is on the boughs;
Those human dwellings, looking peace at least,
In gardens, with their growth of cultured flowers;
The quiet winding of that tideless stream,
Whose very movement is repose, whose waves
Are rarely stirred save by the falling rain,
Which comes when sunshine asks relief from showers;
I could not dwell here, it is far too fair,
For my heart feels the contrast all too much,
Between the placid scene, and its unrest.
