On ev’ry tree of the near shelt’ring wood The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild, Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling Love-songs, spontaneous, greets him merrily. The distant hills, empurpled by the dawn And thinly scatter’d with blue mists that float On their bleak summits dimly visible, Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the air Breathes healthful fragrance. On the Cottage roof The gadding Ivy, and the tawny Vine Bind the brown thatch, the shelter’d winter-hut Of the tame Sparrow, and the Red-breast bold. There dwells the Soldier’s Widow! young and fair Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return,— And every hour anticipates the day, (Deceiv’d, yet cherish’d by the flatt’rer hope) When she shall meet her Hero. On the Eve Of Sabbath rest, she trims her little hut With blossoms, fresh and gaudy, still, herself The queen-flow’r of the garland! The sweet Rose Of wood-wild beauty, blushing thro’ her tears. One little Son she has, a lusty Boy, The darling of her guiltless, mourning heart, The only dear and gay associate Of her lone widowhood. His sun-burnt cheek Is never blanch’d with fear, though he will climb The broad oak’s branches, and with brawny arm Sever the limpid wave. In his blue eye Beams all his mother’s gentleness of soul; While his brave father’s warm intrepid heart Throbs in his infant bosom. ’Tis a wight Most valourous, yet pliant as the stem Of the low vale-born lily, when the dew Presses its perfum’d head. Eight years his voice Has chear’d the homely hut, for he could lisp Soft words of filial fondness, ere his feet Could measure the smooth path-way. On the hills He watches the wide waste of wavy green Tissued with orient lustre, till his eyes Ache with the dazzling splendour, and the main, Rolling and blazing, seems a second Sun! And, if a distant whitening sail appears, Skimming the bright horizon while the mast Is canopied with clouds of dappled gold, He homeward hastes rejoicing. An old Tree Is his lone watch-tow’r; ’tis a blasted Oak Which, from a vagrant Acorn, ages past, Sprang up, to triumph like a Savage bold Braving the Season’s warfare. There he sits Silent and musing the still Evening hour, ’Till the short reign of Sunny splendour fades At the cold touch of twilight. Oft he sings; Or from his oaten pipe, untiring pours The tune mellifluous which his father sung,