Roams by the brook and up the green hill side,
And, lingering, gazes on the church tower grey,
On farms, and cottages, and landscapes wide,
Oft seen in dreams when wandering far away-

Leans pensively upon the rustic stile,

Or turns to grasp a peasant's horny hand, Whose beaming features greet him with a smile, Met only in his own, his boyhood's land

And talks amain of days for ever gone

Asks all the news, who married, who are dead;

And finds more pleasure in that hour alone,

Than in the life his busy manhood led.

THE HOUSE IN THE GHYLL.

OVER the valley and mountain side,

Over the moorland bleak and wide,

The winter snows on the storm-winds ride.

The land is hid in a mantle of white,
Woven and wreathed in a single night,
Long ere the dawn of morning light.

From the mountain Ghyll the waterfall
Contorted hangs, like a crystal pall

Thrown wildly over the rocky wall.

Fiercer and fiercer the storm comes down,

Over farmstead, village and town,

Over the mountain's rugged crown.

What reck they at the house in the Ghyll,

Hard by the foot of the sloping hill?

Mirth the dreariest time may kill.

What reck they for winter night,

Or the storm wind's frenzied flight-
Better than summer warmth and light,

Is the smile of her who there,

Fairest of the village fair,

Lightens all a household's care.

Nought can lighten care, I ween,

Like the love of seventeen

Clad in innocence serene.

Golden hair and eyes of blue,

Love and fondness streaming through,

Nought can sweeten life like you.

Over the valley and mountain side,

Over the moorland bleak and wide,

The softening gales careering ride.

Over the crown of the mountain nigh,

The piled-up snow-drifts moistening lie And melt into a pool on high.

Down come driving wind and rain;
The cataract breaks his icy chain,

And crashes o'er the rocks amain.

The pent-up waters on the hill,
Swelled by many a foaming rill,

Rage above the lonely Ghyll.

Hark! a loud and thundering sound,

Terror strikes the vale around

As the waters burst their bound.

Over farmstead swept the flood,

Over sheepfold, meadow and wood-
Nought its furious rage withstood.

Underneath the rayless skies,

Over the bellowing storm winds, rise
Shrieks of dismay and dying cries.

When the winter morning shone,

It rose on a valley ruin strewn

The house in the Ghyll and all were gone.

Up the valley one summer day

A traveller rode his dapple grey,

And turned him up the churchyard way.

Not for him did the primrose bloom,

Or the lily shed perfume,

His sun of joy had set in gloom.