Blackwood's Magazine/Volume 2/Issue 12/Peace

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PEACE.

I could believe that sorrow ne'er sojourned Within the circle of these sunny hills. That this small Lake, beneath the morning light, ​Now lying so serenely beautiful, Ne'er felt one passing storm, but on its breast Retained for aye the silent imagery Of those untroubled heavens.
    How still yon Isle, Scarcely distinguished from its glimmering shadow In the water pure as air! Yon little Flock, How snow-white lying on the pastoral mount, Basking in the sunshine. That lone Fisherman, Who draws his net so slowly to the shore, How calm an Image of secluded Life! While the boat moving with its twinkling oars, On its short voyage to yon verdant point, Fringed with wild birch-wood, leaves a shining track, Connecting by a pure and silvery line The quiet of both shores.
   So deep the calm I hear the solitary Stock-dove's voice Moaning across the Lake, from the dark bosom Of the old Pine Grove. Hark, the village clock Tolls soberly, and, 'mid the tufted Elms, Reveals the spire still pointing up to Heaven. I travel on unto the noisy City, And on this sunny bank mine hour of rest, Stream-like has murmured by—yet shall the music Oft rise again—the Lake, Hills, Wood, and Grove, And that calm House of God. Sweet Vale, Farewell! Eremus.

Marischal College, Aberdeen.

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