POETRY.
T HORPE UNDE RW 0 OD. THERE is a house set on a lonely hill In a green Midland shire,
It fronts the rolling uplands dim and still, It greets the westering firc. And pines of Austria—a tall shadowy copse— Screen its north-eastern side, You see them as you tread the lane that drops From the bald ridges wide.
A placid life hums through the homestead old, No modern mood aches here, The peace of ages broods o'er wood and wold,— No village babbles near.
But all is openness, light, distance fair, And large majestic sky, And through the silent heights of evening air The shouting rooks sail by.
A presence pure once moved through the hushed place, Stately and sweet and free, Gave to its tongueless beauty vital grace, Lit the sequestered lea.
What images engaging gathered there—
What warmth, what wit, what charm !
How filled with glory were those pastures bare, How glowed the homely farm That form has vanished, and the voice is still, The halo paled away ; Sunset is sad upon the lonely hill— The gold of morning grey : We feel it, as we track the wandering stream, Or climb the woodland slope ; Behind us lies the Eden of a dream, Before—hard, wistful hope ! JOSEPH TRUMAN.
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