Fair art thou, Scotia. The swift mountain stream
Gushes, with deafening roar and whitening spray,
From thy brown hills; where eagles seek their prey,
Or soar undazzled in the solar beam.
But dearer far to me, be thou my theme,
My native Hampshire! Thy sweet valleys gay,
Trees, spires, and cots that in the brilliant ray
Confusedly glitter like a morning dream.
And thou, fair forest! lovely are thy shades,
Thy oaks majestic, over the billows pale,
High spreading their green arms: or the deep glades,
Where the dark holly, armed in prickly mail,
Shelters the yellow fern, and tufted blades
That wave responsive to the sighing gale.
Mary Russell Mitford (1787-1855)
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