162 BIBDS IN LONDON 



In this lone, open glade I lie, 



Screened by deep boughs on either hand ; 

 And at its end, to stay the eye, ■ 



Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand ! 



Birds here make song, each bird has his, 



Across the girdling city's hum. 

 How green under the boughs it is ! 



How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come'! 



Sometimes a child will cross the glade 



To take his nurse his broken toy ; 

 Sometimes a thrush flit overhead 



Deep in her unknown day's employ. 



Here at my feet what wonders pass. 



What endless, active life is here ! 

 What blowing daisies, fragrant grass ! 



An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear. 



In the huge world, which roars hard by. 

 Be others happy if they can ! 



But in my helpless cradle I 



Was breathed on by the rural Pan. 



Calm soul of all things ! Make it mine 



To feel amid the city's jar, 

 That there abides a peace of thine, 



Man did not make, and cannot mar. 



