The sun shone forth, and graced with golden strokes These time-carv’d crags, which intervenes Those various blooming evergreens— Dight here and there to garb the spot— That arch full many a cooling grot, Succeeding waterfalls, and purling brooks.
The Prince sped on towards the moorland height (’Twixt ash, and fir, and oak, and pine, Fair attributes of England’s “Rhine,”— The silver-beech, and gorse, and fern, Re-blooming every year in turn), For Plymouth Sound must be regain’d ere night.
Through fragrant bow’rs, on, on the chariot hies; Affrights, perchance, the timid hare; Entraps the rabbit in the snare; Sends high aloft the squirrel, too; The pheasant, to its instinct true, Spreads his fair sails, and to the azure flies.
“Ah!” some will say, “give me the open sea, A ‘mackerel sky,’ a gentle breeze— Much preferable to rocks and trees, And birds that build therein their nests— Give me the gull, that bravely breasts The mountain-waves—these are the joys for me.
“Let me enjoy a ship’s transporting sway, Replying to the faithful gale Which constant swells her trim white sail. I care not for the rock, the rill, The rugged precipice, nor dell, Which landsmen praise and call fine scenery!”
But when the storm converges fiercely round— What say they when the ship is toss’d, Strikes, breaks asunder, and is lost!— Not one alive to tell the tale! * * * Oh! think ye ’t better than the vale, The ivied cluster, nook, or mossy mound? * *
*No! never, never be it sung or said— “Sea scenes can ever match the land,” Where, like to this, God’s works so grand Majestically dight its face; When Sol, empower’d afresh, with grace Tips the lone cottage on the rough hill-side.
They’re happy out at sea: I’m happy here:— High on the moor, let me inhale The beauteous waftings of the gale, Or hear the mounting lark’s blithe sound, Reverb’rating the blue profound— In the ethereal main, free from all care!
I long to roam about those woods, wild grown, Where birds, at leisure, chirp so sweet, And now and then like mortals meet, Discussing instinctly their love, And hatching little ones, which move, Look up, are feather’d, wing’d, leap, and are flown.
Like as their parents—full of joy and glee— Out on the sun-tipp’d hazel hedge, Or black-berried thorn, or myrtle, sedge; Or bounding o’er the fallow plain, In search of some incumbent grain. ’Tis true their life-time’s short, but still ’tis free.