117
A green-grown path, through gloomy screens
Of damp holm-oak it pressed,
Yet confident, as though its means
Were more than it confessed:
But soon it ran less free and fleet,
Then, like a thing afraid,
Stopped suddenly beneath my feet,
Within a silent glade.
No statues here, no marble cup
Still dripping with the stream!
No cypresses still spiring up
Terrific as a dream!
No royalty, no pride of heart,
No tall Palladian dome;
—But 'twas a garden of the heart,
'Twas England,—it was home!
Dear Charnwood, thou hast glades like this
Hid in thy rocky breast!
How often, tranced in summer bliss,
Such scenes have I possessed!
How often sighed for them I love
To see and take their part,
Then checked the sigh that would disprove
Their presence—in my heart.
