Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale; Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain 225 With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain-- An area level as a Lake and spread Under a rock too steep for man to tread, Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, 230 Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest. Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark, At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark, Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state, But the whole household, that our coming wait. 235 With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange, And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared. Entering, we find the morning meal prepared: So down we sit, though not till each had cast 240 Pleased looks around the delicate repast-- Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest, With amber honey from the mountain's breast; Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild Of children's industry, in hillocks piled; 245 Cakes for the nonce,[3] and butter fit to lie Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality Where simple art with bounteous nature vied, And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride. Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast, 250 If thou be lovelier than the kindling East, Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies, Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes, 255 Dark but to every gentle feeling true, As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue. Let me not ask what tears may have been wept By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept, Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved 260 For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved By fortitude and patience, and the grace Of heaven in pity visiting the place. Not unadvisedly those secret springs I leave unsearched: enough that memory clings, 265 Here as elsewhere, to notices that make Their own significance for hearts awake, To rural incidents, whose genial powers Filled with delight three summer morning hours. More could my pen report of grave or gay 270 That through our gipsy travel cheered the way; But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, "Be done." Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove This humble offering made by Truth to Love, 275 Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell Which might have else been on me yet:-- FAREWELL. VARIANTS: [1] 1845.