And should an English landscape ever pall,
With all its wide diversity of hills
And trees and waters, lo! the fresh breeze fills
Our swelling canvas at the Poet's call!
Where shall we wander? In the fields of France?
Or classic Italy's wave-saluted shore?
Or dearer Scotland's barren heaths and moor?
Or Staffa's natural temple, where in trance
We shadowy beings may behold? Command,—
All wait the movement of the enchanter's wand.
Hail, ye Rydalian laurels that have grown
Untended by the Poet's calm abode.
And in the footpaths that he often trod
Wrapt in deep thought, at evening time, alone.
No Delphic wreath he wanted, when he found
Nature unveiled in all her loveliness,
But these wild leaves and wilder flowers that bless
Our common earth he prayed for, and she bound
His brows therewith; and see, they never fade,
A crown of amaranth by her own hands made.
Home.
No picture from the master hand
Of Gainsborough or Cuyp may vie
With that which at my soul's command
Appears before mine inward eye
In foreign climes when doomed to roam—
Its scene, my own dear native home.
What though no cloud-like hills uprear
Their serried heights sublime afar!
What though the ocean be not near,
With wave and wind in constant war!
