On thy green marge, thou vale of Avalon,
Not for that thou art crowned with ancient towers
And shafts and clustered pillars many a one,
Love I to dream away the sunny hours;
Not for that here in charmèd slumber lie
The holy relics of that British king
Who was the flower of knightly chivalry,
Do I stand blest past power of uttering;--
But for that on thy cowslip--sprinkled sod
Alit of old the olive--bearing bird,
Meek messenger of purchased peace with God;
And the first hymns that Britain ever heard
Arose, the low preluding melodies
To the sweetest anthem that hath reached the skies.
;;;
Sonnet XV. Sunset At Burton Pynsent, Somerset.
How bare and bright thou sinkest to thy rest
Over the burnished line of the Severn sea:
While somewhat of thy power thou buriest
In ruddy mists, that we may look on thee.
And while we stand and wonder, we may see
Far mountain--tops in visible glory drest,
Where 'twixt yon purple hills the sight is free
To search the regions of the dim north--west,
But shadowy bars have crossed thee: suddenly
Thou'rt fallen among strange clouds;--yet not the less
Thy presence know we by the radiancy
That doth thy shroud with golden fringes dress;
Even as hidden love to faithful eye
Brightens the edges of obscure distress.