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       Has sought, immortal in her death:

       Gold, gems, and spice, and haply still

       The red rough largess of the hill

       Which takes the sun and bears the vines

       Among the haunted Apennines.

       And he who treads the cobbled street

       To-day in the cold North may meet,

       Come month, come year, the dusky East,

       And share the Caliph's secret feast;

       Or in the toil of wind and sun

       Bear pilgrim-staff, forlorn, fordone,

       Till o'er the steppe, athwart the sand

       Gleam the far gates of Samarkand.

       The ringing quay, the weathered face

       Fair skies, dusk hands, the ocean race

       The palm-girt isle, the frosty shore,

       Gales and hot suns the wide world o'er

       Grey North, red South, and burnished West

       The goals of the old tireless quest,

       Leap in the smoke, immortal, free,

       Where shines yon morning fringe of sea

       I turn, and lo! the moorlands high

       Lie still and frigid to the sky.

       The film of morn is silver-grey

       On the young heather, and away,

       Dim, distant, set in ribs of hill,

       Green glens are shining, stream and mill,

       Clachan and kirk and garden-ground,

       All silent in the hush profound

       Which haunts alone the hills' recess,

       The antique home of quietness.

       Nor to the folk can piper play

       The tune of "Hills and Far Away,"

       For they are with them. Morn can fire

       No peaks of weary heart's desire,

       Nor the red sunset flame behind

       Some ancient ridge of longing mind.

       For Arcady is here, around,

       In lilt of stream, in the clear sound

       Of lark and moorbird, in the bold

       Gay glamour of the evening gold,

       And so the wheel of seasons moves

       To kirk and market, to mild loves

       And modest hates, and still the sight

       Of brown kind faces, and when night

       Draws dark around with age and fear

       Theirs is the simple hope to cheer.—

       A land of peace where lost romance

       And ghostly shine of helm and lance

       Still dwell by castled scarp and lea,

       And the last homes of chivalry,

       And the good fairy folk, my dear,

       Who speak for cunning souls to hear,

       In crook of glen and bower of hill

       Sing of the Happy Ages still.

      O Thou to whom man's heart is known,

       Grant me my morning orison.

       Grant me the rover's path—to see

       The dawn arise, the daylight flee,

       In the far wastes of sand and sun!

       Grant me with venturous heart to run

       On the old highway, where in pain

       And ecstasy man strives amain,

       Conquers his fellows, or, too weak,

       Finds the great rest that wanderers seek!

       Grant me the joy of wind and brine,

       The zest of food, the taste of wine,

       The fighter's strength, the echoing strife

       The high tumultuous lists of life—

       May I ne'er lag, nor hapless fall,

       Nor weary at the battle-call!...

       But when the even brings surcease,

       Grant me the happy moorland peace;

       That in my heart's depth ever lie

       That ancient land of heath and sky,

       Where the old rhymes and stories fall

       In kindly, soothing pastoral.

       There in the hills grave silence lies,

       And Death himself wears friendly guise

       There be my lot, my twilight stage,

       Dear city of my pilgrimage.