蜜芽传媒

by James Orr

The sweet rose of June scents your shade,
The peas that you鈥檝e prop鈥檇 are in bloom;
I鈥檝e moulded my roots with my spade,
And heap鈥檇 up my fuel at home.
My fair! shall we walk by yon hedge?
Or angle a while in the rill?
Nay, rather let鈥檚 gaze from the edge
Of soft-sloping, stately Fort-Hill.

How lovely the landscape below!
The boats on the silver lake move;
The conic hay-cocks form a row;
The dome gleams and glows, thro' the grove:
The nymphs, and, the mead-mowing hinds
Toil blithe. Yon stript slave stoops to swill
A draught of the cool stream that winds
From the bosom of bounteous Fort-Hill.

Here, westward, the cataract white,
Roars , roughens, and bounds o'er the steep;
And there, with her ship-saving light,
Sits Copeland emerg'd from the deep;
The bowling. green, here, crowns the height,
A wood-circled scene of blithe skill
And there, glides some glorious first-rate,
Whose thunders could shake e'en Fort-Hill.

Beneath us the hamlets' street smiles,
The forge chimes, the full school breaks, free;
While home haste the glad lab'ring files,
Dismiss'd by the bell on the tree:
May they soon dance each eve to the fife
That's now only heard at the drill;
And the horrible kettle of strife
Cease to boil in the view of Fort-Hill!

Observe yon proud city, how grand
Her spire seems! how dreadful her tow'r!
Grim rising o'er both sea and land,
Like the stern sprite on wild Patmos' shore.
What smoke from yon found'ry aspires;
Yon safe port what groves of masts fill!
Yon tide-crossing bridge, joining shires,
Is at once firm and fair, like Fort-Hill.

Hail! wonted walks! distant shires, hail!
Hail! wide realms, that seas roll between,
Immensity 's self, draws a veil
On the skirts of the soul-raising scene:
The heaths where, of yore, Ossian warr'd,
The plains fam'd, poor Burns, by your quill,
And the isle where the Manx tongue is heard,
Conspicuous are all to Fort-Hill.

Bright noon, how intense is your heat!
The fence, lo! the startling herds mock;
From the prone beam, my fair, let's retreat
To the dew-dripping cave in the rock;
If some hermit dwelt 'there, well I ween,
While your smiles warm'd his pulse, now grown chill,
Moralizing the picturesque scene,
He'd say, looking down from Fort-Hill:

鈥淭hese white hedges time soon shall blast,
鈥淎nd the mute linnet bend the bare spray:
"These fertile fields, ripening so fast,
"Must soon lose their grain, beans and hay:
"That Moat, the blest Elves鈥� dwelling place,
鈥淵ou may live to see sacrilege till:
"And these cottages, smoking in peace,
鈥淒reary wastes at the foot of Fort-Hill.

"Yea, yon tower-topp'd and- firm eastern hill;
鈥淲hich once was dy'd red by war's art,
鈥淭he deep, whose dread notes now are still,
"And all that we see shall depart;
鈥淏ut life-blessing love, spotless truth,
"And firm friendship, time cannot kill;
鈥淧reserve them fair maid, and fond youth,
"And live blest in the shade of Fort-Hill鈥�.