Classic Poem

Not in the mazes of her hair,
Thick woods that hide the open sky,
Nor where the lonely mountains dare
To lift their thought-wreathed foreheads high;
But where her bosom falls and swells
To moulded downs and dimpled dells,
Does she invite me
And delight me.

Winter has laid his withered hands
Upon her raven tresses now,
And cold with speculation stands
The snow-capped mountain's icy brow;
But still her heart is warm and kind,
Here, where the sunny heart and mind
Shame the harsh winter
That would stint her.

Above her floats the singing breeze,
Like music borne from hidden isles
Where, girt with only laughing seas,
Æolian sounds wake at the smiles
Of lovers' eyes, and pass unchecked,
Like dappled light on waters flecked,
Till hearts desponding
Rise responding.

Gracious and kind her every thought,
And beautiful her age-long dreams;
Here Time no ravages has wrought,
But passes as the gentle beams
Of sunset, ere the wintry light
Gives place to that wide-glittering sight,
The radiant hoar-frost
On heaven's floor tost.

When moonlight casts its filmy veil
Of silvery sheen about her limbs,
Peace immemorial steeps the dale
And Silence every valley brims;
For Terror here no shadowy crags
Can find wherein to hide his hags,
Luring the stranger
Into danger.

And when the gold of early morn
Lies strewn upon her cleansing sea,
She then reveals how she has worn
Night's glistening pearls with maiden glee,
Ere to the hasty envious sun
With generous heart she yields each one,
Showing in bareness
Heavenly fairness.

Lulled in the arms of night and day
Before the reddening dawn of years,
This nursling of the ages lay —
This child of Beauty's hopes and fears —
Till, like some Amazon of old,
She bared her bosom to the bold
Onslaught of changing
Time's wild ranging.

And now she sleeps. She only sleeps,
This mother of a multitude,
And still wide-open arms she keeps
For those returning from the feud
Of little rights, and lesser wrongs,
That weary-hearted men in throngs
Wage for a season
Of dimmed reason.

But out of time untrod, a sound
Comes echoing down the years to be,
Telling how wiser men have found
Their old inheritance set free,
And changed for huddled gloomy towns
The wide-flung splendour of the downs,
Where simple duty
Weds with beauty.