Second Collection. Happiness
Ah! you do seem to think the ground, Where happiness is best a-vound, Is where the high-peäl’d park do reach Wi’ elem-rows, or clumps o’ beech; Or where the coach do stand avore The twelve-tunn’d house’s lofty door, Or men can ride behin’ their hounds Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds, An’ seldom wi’ the lowly; Upon the green that we do tread, Below the welsh-nut’s wide-limb’d head, Or grass where apple trees do spread? No, so’s; no, no: not high nor low: ’Tis where the heart is holy. ’Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor, ’Ithin the marble-pillar’d door, Where day do cast, in high-ruf’d halls, His light drough lofty window’d walls; An’ wax-white han’s do never tire Wi’ strokes ov heavy work vor hire, An’ all that money can avword Do lwoad the zilver-brighten’d bwoard; Or mid be wi’ the lowly, Where turfs a-smwolderèn avore The back, to warm the stwonèn vloor, An’ love’s at hwome ’ithin the door? No, so’s; no, no; not high nor low: ’Tis where the heart is holy. An’ ceäre can come ’ithin a ring O’ sworded guards, to smite a king, Though he mid hold ’ithin his hands The zwarmèn vo’k o’ many lands; Or goo in drough the iron-geäte Avore the house o’ lofty steäte; Or reach the miser that do smile A-buildèn up his goolden pile; Or else mid smite the lowly, That have noo pow’r to loose or bind Another’s body, or his mind, But only hands to help mankind. If there is rest ’ithin the breast, ’Tis where the heart is holy.
William Barnes’s other poems:
