The Village Lane
O’er-shadowed, still retreat, track trod by tuneful feet,
Haunt of the swallow, robin’s rich domain
The freehold of the wren, the fairies chamber when
The moon is fullest! Welcome, village lane.
Beneath some ancient trees, shook by the sighing breeze,
A few roods past the last house and the mill,
Bubbles the village well where lads and lasses tell
The hamlet’s wonders when the day is still.
Yes, here true lovers stray, when comes the cool of day
Whispering their loves beneath the hawthorn tree,
Forgetful how the night steals o’er the darkening height
And living each that each might happier be.
And who? though earthy poor, Begrimed with care all o’er,
And sadly sad as ever sad can be
Would not forget his pain when wandering down the lane,
Where robin builds within the hollow tree!
How sweet to wander here, when vespers murmur clear,
Tuning my harp betwixt the day and night!
Then pictures, fairer far than sky or peering star,
Throng on my vision o’er the dusky height.
At such a quiet hour there comes a soothing power,
Found only in the path of solitude;
And voices in the breeze, and voices in the trees,
Are richly laden with the spirit’s food.
Why crowd the sickly street, with noisy, feverish heat,
Where not a bud or living leaf is seen,
But hills of brick and stone, where weary wretches groan,
When you may wander where the walls are green?
Come to the village lane, enjoy it’s calm again,
As Eve steals forth to bead her favourite flower;
Beneath the woodbine sit, where bats in silence flit
And muse on life beyond earth’s little hour.
