WHERE be the noisy followers of the game Which faction breeds; the turmoil where? that passed Through Europe, echoing from the newsman's blast, And filled our hearts with grief for England's shame. Peace greets us; -- rambling on without an aim We mark majestic herds of cattle, free To ruminate, couched on the grassy lea; And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange delight, While consciousnesses, not to be disowned, Here only serve a feeling to invite That lifts the spirit to a calmer height, And makes this rural stillness more profound. |