24
DUNSTONE HILL
A cottage built of native stone
Stands on the mountain-moor alone,
High from man’s dwelling on the wide
And solitary mountain-side,
The purple mountain-side, where all
The dewy night the meteors fall,
And the pale stars musically set
To the watery bells of the rivulet,
And all day long, purple and dun,
The vast moors stretch beneath the sun,
The wide wind passeth fresh and hale,
And whirring grouse and blackcock sail.
Ah, heavenly Peace, where dost thou dwell?
Surely ’twas here thou hadst a cell,
Till flaming Love, wandering astray
With fury and blood, drove thee away.—
Far down across the valley deep
The town is hid in smoky sleep,
At moonless nightfall wakening slow
Upon the dark with lurid glow:
Beyond, afar the widening view
Merges into the soften’d blue,
Cornfield and forest, hill and stream,
Fair England in her pastoral dream.
To one who looketh from this hill
Life seems asleep, all is so still:
Nought passeth save the travelling shade
Of clouds on high that float and fade:
Nor since this landscape saw the sun
Might other motion o’er it run,
Till to man’s scheming heart it came
To make a steed of steel and flame.
Him may you mark in every vale
Moving beneath his fleecy trail,
And tell whene’er the motions die
Where every town and hamlet lie.
He gives the distance life to-day,
Rushing upon his level’d way
From man’s abode to man’s abode,
And mocks the Roman’s vaunted road,
Which o’er the moor purple and dun
Still wanders white beneath the sun,
Deserted now of men and lone
Save for this cot of native stone.
There ever by the whiten’d wall
Standeth a maiden fair and tall,
And all day long in vacant dream
Watcheth afar the flying steam.