NOW above the craggy steep
Rosy day begins to peep,
And along the smiling deep,
Gentle breezes roam.
Rouse! and make no more delay,
For 'tis time we were away,
Journeying from pilgrimage
Home, home, home!
To climb the mountain's airy brow, Where summer suns ne'er melt the snow,
To plod thro' vale or cavern low,
Are pleasant things to some;
But we have had enough of these,
And now we turn ourselves to please
From our distant pilgrimage
Home, home, home.
Enough by sea, enough by shore,
We've brav'd the blustering tempest's roar, We've fasted now enough and more,
As thro' wild woods we roam.
Enough our weary feet have bled,
And oft the rock has been our bed,
Amid our weary pilgrimage,
Away from home.
Scrip, and staff, and cockle shell,
We have known each other well,
Together long, o'er hill and dell,
We have been us'd to roam.
But scrip and staff adieu! adieu!
We have no more need of you,
For now we turn from pilgrimage-
Home, home, home.
He that loves to fast and pray,
And to rise ere break of day,
Through rain and hail may take his way
To Mecca or to Rome.
But he that in good cheer delights,
He that loves to sleep at nights,
Turn with us from pilgrimage
Home, home, home.
Home we speed, and home we hie,
Home! with one accord we cry,
Home the rocks and hills reply,
Home, home, home.
Forgotten now each trouble past,
We only think what scenes at last
Shall well repay our pilgrimage,
Secure at home.
A shelter warm above our heads, Wine that cheer and vigour spreads, Chambers clean, and downy beds, Where pleasant dreams may come; And perhaps but you must guess What else there remains to bless Those who come from pilgrimage Home, home, home!
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
STILL was the night, and every gale
Had died along the winding vale;
Smooth was the surface of the flood,
And echo slumber'd by the wood;
The broad full moon's unclouded light
Shone on each turret's vane-topp'd height,
Flash'd frequent from the bubbling rill,
And gleam'd upon the distant hill.
When by the stream of humble name,
Which might a higher title claim,
With loitering steps I bent my way,
As chance or fancy bade me stray.
The murmur of the distant town
Had less and less each moment grown,
The hurrying tread was heard no more,
The din of rattling wheels was o'er,
And not a sound met fancy's ear,
Save such as fancy loves to hear.
The distant watch-dogs bay'd the moon;
The beetle humm'd his drowsy tune;
Where o'er the rocks the water fell
The sound oft rose in solemn swell;
As oft lull'd to a softer strain,
Then, fitful, murmur'd loud again.
Where from the casement stream'd a light,
The flute's soft voice stole on the night,
With mellow breathings sad and slow,
And swelling tones and warblings low;
Meet notes to sooth a lover's care,
Or rapt enthusiast ling'ring there.
On such an hour alone to stray,
And feel not inspiration's sway,
Requires a heart of dullest mould
That faintly moves a bosom cold-
A warmer glow my veins had known,
And fancy found me all her own.
Led by her hand I trac'd the stream, That glitter'd in the lunar beam, Now rushing o'er a rocky bed, In smooth expanse now calmly spread; Where every beech upon its side Threw a dark shadow o'er the tide. Much did I muse if other times, In Grecian or in Tuscan climes, Had suffer'd such a stream so long To rest unhonour'd by a song. For never stream that yet arose, More beauteous and more limpid flows. No stream can boast of cooler shades Upon its banks, nor fairer maids.
Long since Ilyssus' attic wave
A theme to many a poet gave,
On Arno's banks the Muse appear'd,
The song on Tajo's shores was heard;
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