Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.



By James Payn (1830–1898)

ONCE more upon this happy hill

Doth yet my free foot bound at will;

About those cliffs, whose hearts of stone

To spade and mattock inly groan,

Well to reward the miner’s pains,

In wealth from out a thousand veins,

Poor and past use, in age resigned

To ruin like our human kind,

And now and then o’erwhelming all,

Midst sullen thunder, in their fall;

Above the moorlands, brown and shorn,

On whose rough beds the winds are born,

From hardy north-blast, flinging wreaths

Of cradled snow, to that which breathes

Too infant-like to bear its tale

Of heathery sweetness to the vale;

And through those woods, my boyhood knew

And loved so well, whose memories strew

Their pathways thick as leaves

Upon the dreary autumn eves:

Once more I tread these pleasant fields

With chainless heart, fair Devon yields

Once more the old accustomed rest,

Most welcome as most absent guest.