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that spirit's wealth we gain from communion, however brief, with the beauty, purity, and holiness of nature—
Imagination's momentary spell
Calls up a well-known scene—Oh! 'tis so fair,
So very real—we might wander there.
Come, let us rest on yon rude stile, where stand
The village children, and look o'er the sea
Of golden-coloured grain, that waves beneath
The gentle breath of the soft Summer's day;
Then, turning, glance upon those noble trees,
Between whose gnarled trunks the winding road
Leads onward, shaded and sunlit by turns,—
Chequered like life, but far more pleasantly.
Or, if the corn-field's bright blest English face
More lure ye than the beaten path-way, cross
That wealth o'er-laden treasury,—and then,
Pausing awhile, where rises the church-tower,
Ivied, and hoar, above the girdling wood,
On, to the hills away! until the brow
Of the o'er-crowning one lies neath your feet.
And, leaning, breath-spent, on the turf, look round;
First, earth-ward, where the human dwellings lie
Basking in sunlight;—then upon the hills,
Whose swelling sides, uprising, woo the clouds
In time of tempest, and enclothe themselves
With storm and darkness as a wintry garb,
