THE RETURN TO MY NATIVE VILLAGE.
(Written in very early youth.)
As down this vale with falt'ring step I stray
What thoughts arise! For here life's early day
With me began, that day which now is o'er,
While youth and vigour shed their joys no more.
Those joys are fled. Hail peaceful eve of life,
Free from the cares that feed the spark of strife,
Free from those ties that form the stubborn chain
Which binds us to a world where all is vain.
Those joys are fled, nor ever will return;
And pleasures past 'tis useless now to mourn,
Yet, though I mourn them not, a silent tear
Flows to remembrance while I linger here.
Yon mansion shaded with the clust'ring vine,
Round whose ag'd trunk the wanton tendrils twine,
Form'd my first scene within this world of woe,
A world whose cares I then had yet to know:
There, with the lov'd companions of my youth,
First was I shewn the hallow'd path of truth;
That path seem'd easy then; of folly's snare
I knew not, guided by a parent's care:
O years how blest! alas, how quickly flown,
When virtue, health, and joy, were all my own!
The time-worn porch, the long-deserted green,
Bring to my mind each dear domestic scene;
The redbreast twitt'ring on the moss-grown wall,
Tim'rous he hears the steps unwonted fall;
Unlike the one to happy childhood known
Who, welcom❜d long, had long familiar grown,
And on the crumb-strewn casement vent'ring near,
The while our infant voices sooth'd his fear,
Still half distrustful, at short distance stood
And peck'd with eye askance the proffer'd food.
The garden's scented range, its walks and bowers
Still sadly gay with long-neglected flowers,
The blooming orchard, and the breezy grove,
Where the blithe songsters unmolested rove,
All to my view those smiling hours restore
Of youthful hope, which will return no more,
When homely scenes and simple joys could please
The heart still simple, and the mind at ease.
'Twas here we stoop'd to pluck the violet blue, Or watch the crocus ope her golden hue,
THE RETURN TO MY NATIVE VILLAGE.
To bind in dewy tufts the primrose pale,
The daffodil and lily of the vale,
When each delight, new-wafted by the Spring,
Gave pleasure ere it spread departing wing.
'Twas ours at morn to range the verdant mead,
Call'd from the flock the home-bred lamb to feed,
To watch the moth, new-risen from her tomb,
Sport on aerial wing from bloom to bloom,
Or playfully the wand'ring bee compel
To quit the shelter of the cowslip's bell.
Down by yon stream, when Summer's sultry heat
Led us to seek the shade and mossy seat,
How often have we watch'd the giddy dance
Of countless myriads on its smooth expanse,
Or the gay gnats that 'neath the willow's shade
Unceasingly their airy music made;
Then turn'd with childish eagerness to view
The ant-hill moving with its lab'ring crew,
Each with his burden, while the hollow'd soil
And growing city spoke their hourly toil;
A busy sight that well might fill with shame
Those slaves of pleasure, rich in wealth and name,
Who to her courts each idle hour repair
Weary of self, and self-created care.
The scene is chang'd by Fancy's magic wand,
And wintry pictures rise at her command.
Here when December reign'd with iron sway,
All verdure kill'd, and hush'd the vocal lay,
When nought of vegetable life was seen,
Save where abroad the shelter'd evergreen
Spread her dark leaves, when mute was every sound,
All, save the Winter wind that moan'd around, Then near the hearth our cheerful circle drew, And while the sparks the crackling faggot threw, And while with patt'ring noise the falling rain Borne on the blast still smote the window's pane, Some tale beguil'd the dark'ning hours awayStretch'd at her ease the purring fav'rite lay, While round the chair the playful kitten hied, And o'er again its varied antics tried.
Oft, when the morning sun with languid ray
Gleam'd from the east and clear'd the mists away,
With new-brac'd limbs we climb'd the hill to view
The hunting train their winter-sports renew,
Hear the shrill horn resound across the marsh,
Or chiding of the dogs-sounds rude and harsh
Caught by the timid and defenceless hare,
Where she in covert or in thicket bare
Cropt the scant herb. Left in the barren field
The shiv'ring cattle seek the feeble shield
Of half-roor'd shed or stack, and stamp the ground
With scatter'd fern and wither'd leaves imbrown'd.
THE RETURN TO MY NATIVE VILLAGE.
I mount the cliff whose summit distant lands,
A rich and cultivated range, commands.
The fertile valley's wide extended ground
Retiring hills with graceful outlines bound;
Half wrapt in clouds their summits blue ascend,
And earth and skies together seem to blend.
The river winding through the verdant glade,
Now seen, now lost beneath her margin's shade ;
The willows bending o'er the rural mill;
The flock slow pacing up the distant hill;
The scatter'd hamlet; pastures spreading wide
That slope their greensward to the river's side;
The solemn ruin, beauteous in decay,
Round whose ag'd wall the ivy's gadding spray
Hangs her long wreathes with wild fantastic grace,
Or twines encroaching through the window's space--
These form the landscape: Nature here combines
Her softer touches with her bolder lines.
In all her forms she charms the feeling heart
And the pure bliss of Eden can impart;
In all her forms she charms, from the dread sight
Of torrent rushing o'er the frowning height,
Or sound of winds which with increasing roar
Heave the huge billow on the pebbly shore,
To the soft note that warbles thro' the grove,
Or flow'r whose fragrance meets us as we rove,
Or gushing spring whose murmur soothes the mind
With dreams of bliss all vague and undefin'd,
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