I have passed to the heart of the Hills,
For a season of halcyon hours,
'Mid the music of murmurous rills,
And the delicate odours of flowers;
And I walk in an exquisite shade,
Where the fern-tasselled boughs interlace;
And the verdurous fringe of the glade
Is a marvel of fairylike grace;
And with never an aim or a plan
I can wander in uttermost ease,
Where the only reminders of Man
Are the monkeys aloft in the trees;
Or, perchance, on the 'silvery mere,'
In a 'shallop' I lazily float,
With—it's possible—some one to steer,
Or with no one (which lightens the boat).
O the glorious gift of release
From the chains that encircle the thrall,
To be quiet, and cool, and at peace,
And to loaf, and do nothing at all!
I am clear of that infamous lark;
I am far from the blare of the Band;
And the bugles are silent, the bark
Of the Colonel is hushed in the land.
And—I say it again—I am free,
In the valleys of wandering bliss;
And most gratefully 'own, if there be
An Elysium on earth, it is this!'