How sweet in this secluded vale
On soft green turf to calmly lie,
And spend an hour in musing well,
Whilst gazing on the sun-bright sky.
The busy world seems all shut out
By circling hills on every side,
So lofty, that you scarce can hear,
O’er their proud tops, the breaking tide.
Here solitude and silence reign,
Enhanced—not lost—by rural sounds;
Wild, varied, woodland scenes prevail
Within this deep glen’s winding bounds.
The rude furze clothes each rugged steep,
And trees adorn each upland swell;
Whilst in the warm and sheltered nooks,
A thousand wild-flowers sweetly dwell.
The ash tree waves its feath’ry boughs
Obedient to the light, soft breeze;
And on the sense delightful falls
The song of birds—the hum of bees.
Whilst ’mid this peaceful landscape laid,
So free from strife, and thoughts of pain;
It seems as if the pastoral days
Of ancient times had come again.
Those days of happiness and calm,
Ere war was known, or gold was found,
When shepherds sung their dulcet lays,
With flocks of lambkins feeding round.
What pure refreshment does it give,
To leave awhile life’s bustling stage;
And here to please and soothe the soul
As calm as in a hermitage.
But why on such a scene as this
Bestow, as if in mockery vain,
The name—allied to blood and war—
Of th’ ancient and piratic Dane?
Perhaps ’tis well! as thought returns,
Back to that time of feud and war;
The contrast makes us prize this age,
Ruled o’er by Peace’s brightest star!