In 1825, Mrs. Hemans made another remove, though but a short one. The house in which she lived at Bronwylfa had been purchased by her elder brother, who came to live in it; and she, with her mother, sister, and her children, removed about a quarter of a mile, to Rhyllon, yet in full view of the old house. This house at Rhyllon is described as being a tall, staring, brick building, almost destitute of trees, of creepers on the walls, or of shrubbery; while Bronwylfa, on the contrary, was a perfect bower of roses, peeping, says her sister, like a bird's nest out of the foliage in which it was embosomed. "In spite, however," continues the same sisterly biographer, "of the unromantic exterior of her new abode, the earlier part of Mrs. Hemans's residence at Rhyllon may, perhaps, be considered as the happiest of her life; as far, at least, as the term happiness could ever be fitly applied to any period of it later than childhood. The house, with all its ugliness, was large and convenient; the view from the windows beautiful and extensive; and its situation, on a fine green slope, terminating in a pretty woodland dingle, peculiarly healthy and cheerful. Never, perhaps, had she more thorough enjoyment of her boys than in witnessing and often joining in their sports, in those pleasant, breezy fields, where the kites soared so triumphantly, and the hoops trundled so merrily, and where the cowslips grew as cowslips never grew before. An atmosphere of home soon gathered round the dwelling; roses were planted, and honeysuckles trained; and the rustling of the solitary poplar near the window was taken to her heart, like the voice of a friend. The dingle became a favorite haunt, where she would pass many dream-like hours of enjoyment with her books, and her own sweet fancies, and her children playing around her. Every tree and flower, and tuft of moss that sprung amid its green recesses, was invested with some individual charm by that rich imagination, so skilled in "Clothing the palpable and the familiar With golden exhalations of the dawn." Here, on what the boys would call "mamma's sofa,"--a little grassy mound under her favorite beech-tree--she first read The Talisman, and has described the scene with a loving minuteness, in her Hour of Romance. "There were thick leaves above me and around, And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep, Amid their dimness, and a fitful sound, As of soft showers on water. Dark and deep Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still, They seemed but pictured glooms; a hidden rill Made music--such as haunts us in a dream-- Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed, Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down." Many years after, in the sonnet, To a distant Scene, she addresses, with a fond yearning, this well remembered haunt-- "Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far off grassy dell!"