DARTMOOR

Too long have I dwelt

In the valley beneath ;

Too long have I felt

The soft summer wind's breath ;

Too long have I lingered

In evergreen bowers,

And drank the air laden

With fragrance of flowers.

Let me fly to the mountains,

The noble, the free,

Whence, sparkling, the fountains

Leap down to the sea.

Let me feel their fresh breezes

Blow full on my breast ;

For toil better pleases

Than wearisome rest.

In haste, rapture-smitten,

I climb the steep Tor

Where the camp of the Briton

Looks over the moor.

Like the sea in its trouble

The granite hills rave,

Each hillock a bubble,

Oh ! wise were the oak-priests
Of ancient renown,
Who chose for their temples
The mountain's gray crown ;
Who loved the wild moorland,
And sought, not in vain,
On the hills for the wisdom
Denied to the plain.

They felt the gale smiting
Their brows in its motion ;
They heard the stream fighting
Its way to the ocean.
They saw the rough granite
By thunderbolts riven,
And deemed that the mountains
Were nearest to heaven.

Still the old fire is burning
In fresh coruscations ;
Their ancestors' yearning
Stirs new generations ;
We dwell in the lowland
For toil and for wealth,
But fly to the highland
For freedom and health.