ROBINSON’S THE CAMP
February 25, 2010
Close on the margin of a brawling brook
That bathes the low dell's bosom, stands a cot,
O'ershadow'd by broad alders. At its door
A rude seat, with an ozier canopy,
Invites the weary traveller to rest.
Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within
The sweets of joy domestic oft have made
The long hour not uncheerly, while the moor
Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak blast
Swept with impetuous wing the mountain's brow!
On every tree of the near sheltering wood
The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild,
Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling
Love-songs spontaneous, greets him merrily.
The distant hills, empurpled by the dawn,
And thinly scatter'd with blue mists that float
On their bleak summits dimly visible,
Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the air
Breathes healthful fragrance. On the cottage roof
The gadding ivy, and the tawny vine
Bind the brown thatch, the shelter'd winter-hut
Of the tame sparrow, and the red-breast bold.
There dwells the soldier's widow! young and fair,
Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day
She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return,
And every hour anticipates the day
(Deceived, yet cherish'd, by the flatterer Hope)
When she shall meet her hero. On the eve
Of sabbath rest, she trims her little hut
With blossoms fresh and gaudy, still herself