Forest Hill

O when I dared the Muse to name,
Did it not wake my spirit's flame?
Did it not guide my eye, my soul,
To yonder distant shadowy knoll?
And whisper in each joyous thrill
'Tis Milton's home, 'tis Forest Hill?
Yes, there he lived, and there he sung,
When life and hope and love were young;
There, grace and genius at his side,
He won his half-disdainful bride;
And there the lark "in spite of sorrow"
Still at his "window bade good morrow
Through the sweet-brier, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine."
O happy hill! thy summer vest
Lives in his richest colouring drest;
O happy hill! thou saw'st him blest.
Thou saw'st him blest, the greatest man
That ever trod life's grovelling span,—
Shakspeare alone with him could try,
Undazzled and untired, the sky.
And thou didst view his blooming charm,
That eagle plumed like the dove,
Whose very sleeping grace could warm
The Italian maiden's heart to love.
Thou saw'st him in his happier hour,
When life was love, and genius power;
When at his touch the awakened string
All joyous hailed the laughing spring;
And, like the sun, his radiant eyes
Glanced on thy earthly Paradise.
Thou did'st not see those eyes so bright
Forever quenched in cheerless night;
Thou didst not hear his anguished lays
Of "evil tongues and evil days;"
Thou saw'st but his gay youth, fair spot,—
Happiest for what thou sawest not.
And happy still! Though in thy sod
No blade remain by Milton trod;
Though the sweet gale that sweeps thy plain
No touch of Milton's breath retain;
Yet here the bards of later days
Shall roam to view thee and to praise.
Here Jones, ere yet his voice was fame,
A lone romantic votary came;
He too is gone, untimely gone!
But lured by him full many a one
Shall tread thy hill on pilgrimage;
And minstrel, patriot, or sage,
Who bent not o'er his Indian bier,
Shall mourn him with his Milton here,
For till our English tongue be dead,
From freedom's breast till life be fled,
Till Poesy's quick pulse be still,
None shall forsake thee, Forest Hill.