Yarrow and Chicory, That hath for hue no like, Silene and Mallow mild And Agrimony’s spike, Blue-eyed Veronicas And grey-faced Scabious And downy Silverweed And striped Convolvulus: Harebell shall haunt the banks, And thro’ the hedgerow peer Withwind and Snapdragon And Nightshade’s flower of fear. And where men never sow, Have I my Thistles set, Ragwort and stiff Wormwood And straggling Mignonette, Bugloss and Burdock rank And prickly Teasel high, With Umbels yellow and white, That come to kexes dry. Pale Chlora shalt thou find, Sun-loving Centaury, Cranesbill and Sinjunwort, Cinquefoil and Betony: Shock-headed Dandelion, That drank the fire of the sun Hawkweed and Marigold, Cornflower and Campion. Let Oak and Ash grow strong, Let Beech her branches spread; Let Grass and Barley throng And waving Wheat for bread; Be share and sickle bright To labour at all hours; For thee and thy delight I have made the idle flowers. But now ’tis Winter, child, And bitter northwinds blow, The ways are wet and wild, The land is laid in snow. 24 DUNSTONE HILL A cottage built of native stone Stands on the mountain-moor alone, High from man’s dwelling on the wide And solitary mountain-side, The purple mountain-side, where all The dewy night the meteors fall, And the pale stars musically set To the watery bells of the rivulet, And all day long, purple and dun, The vast moors stretch beneath the sun, The wide wind passeth fresh and hale, And whirring grouse and blackcock sail. Ah, heavenly Peace, where dost thou dwell? Surely ’twas here thou hadst a cell, Till flaming Love, wandering astray With fury and blood, drove thee away.— Far down across the valley deep The town is hid in smoky sleep, At moonless nightfall wakening slow Upon the dark with lurid glow: Beyond, afar the widening view Merges into the soften’d blue, Cornfield and forest, hill and stream, Fair England in her pastoral dream. To one who looketh from this hill Life seems asleep, all is so still: Nought passeth save the travelling shade Of clouds on high that float and fade: Nor since this landscape saw the sun Might other motion o’er it run, Till to man’s scheming heart it came To make a steed of steel and flame. Him may you mark in every vale Moving beneath his fleecy trail, And tell whene’er the motions die Where every town and hamlet lie. He gives the distance life to-day, Rushing upon his level’d way From man’s abode to man’s abode, And mocks the Roman’s vaunted road, Which o’er the moor purple and dun Still wanders white beneath the sun, Deserted now of men and lone Save for this cot of native stone.