GLADESMUIR.
197
Is darkened with long suffering; yet he is
Oh more than happy!—he has reached his home,
And Ronald is a wanderer no more.
How often in that fair romantic land
Where he had been a soldier, he had turned
From the rich groves of Spain, to think upon
The oak and pine; turned from the spicy air,
To sicken for his own fresh mountain-breeze;
And loved the night, for then familiar things,
The moon and stars, were visible, and looked
As they had always done, and shed sweet tears
To think that he might see them shine again
Over his own Gladesmuir! That silver moon,
In all her perfect beauty, is now rising;
The purple billows of the west have yet
A shadowy glory; all beside is calm,
