See yonder smoke, before it curls to Heaven Mingles its blue amid the elm-trees tall; Shrinking like one who fears to be forgiven, So on the earth again doth prostrate fall, And ’mid the bending green each sin recall. Now from their beds the cottage-children rise, Roused by some early playmate’s noisy bawl; And, on the door-step standing, rub their eyes, Stretching their little arms, and gaping at the skies. The leaves “drop, drop,” and dot the crisped stream So quick, each circle wears the first away; Far out the tufted bulrush seems to dream, And to the ripple nods its head alway; The water-flags with one another play, Bowing to every breeze that blows between, While purple dragon-flies their wings display: The restless swallow’s arrowy flight is seen, Dimpling the sunny wave, then lost amid the green. The boy who last night passed that darksome lane, Trembling at every sound, and pale with fear; Who shook when the long leaves talked to the rain, And tried to sing, his sinking heart to cheer; Hears now no brook wail ghost-like on his ear, No dead-man’s groan in the black-beetle’s wing: But where the deep-dyed butterflies appear, And on the flowers like folded pea-blooms swing, With napless hat in hand he after them doth spring. In the far sky the distant landscape melts, Like pilèd clouds tinged with a darker hue; Even the wood which yon high upland belts Looks like a range of clouds, of deeper blue. One withered tree bursts only on the view,-- A bald bare oak, which on the summit grows, (And looks as if from out the sky it grew:) That tree has borne a thousand wintry snows, And seen unnumbered mornings gild its gnarled boughs. Yon weather-beaten grey old finger-post Stands like Time’s land-mark pointing to decay; The very roads it once marked out are lost: The common was encroached on every day By grasping men who bore an unjust sway, And rent the gift from Charity’s dead hands. The post does still one broken arm display, Which now points out where the New Workhouse stands, As if it said “Poor man! those walls are all thy lands.” Where o’er yon woodland-stream dark branches bow, Patches of blue are let in from the sky, Throwing a chequered underlight below, Where the deep waters steeped in gloom roll by; Looking like Hope, who ever watcheth nigh, And throws her cheering ray o’er life’s long night, When wearied man would fain lie down and die. Past the broad meadow now it rolleth bright, Which like a mantle green seems edged with silver light.