MEMORIES OF HOME.
Down in the solitude of thought, where hopes well-garnered dwell,
Where treasured up, our richer store lies safely kept and well,
There meting out the brilliant rays, which from their lustre come,
Lie safe-embowered, like ocean's pearls, these memories of home.
In varied shape these memories flock, their fav'rite guise come list:
They're tending sprites which hover round, like seraphs in a mist
Of light evolved from spirit-land, and ever point away
To where our earlier joys had birth, our earliest longings stay.
They point to where the daisied field and fragrant plain extend,
Where silv'ry brooks, 'mid verdant meads, their bubbling passage wend,
Where the lark, at morning startled, when the shadows tend to west,
Soars, bearing up her matin hymn, then carols o'er her nest.
Where the reaper blithely whistles, while falls the teeming grain,
Where the maid, some love tale warbling, responds in rustic strain.
While laughing children, angel-eyed, with cheeks of blooming hue,
Fill groves surrounding with their song, there oftimes point they too.
And now to scenes more solemn do they call the vision back,
As where in old historic lands, grey age has left his track;
The blood-dew'd fields, in story famed, come up before our gaze,
And heroes and heroic deeds, long sank in time's deep haze.
Comes rising up each well-marked spot, by greybeard peasants shown,
Where Wrong awhile in arms prevailed, perhaps where Freedom won;
Where erst some patriot chieftain called his willing clansmen round,
And rushed to battle with his hosts where foemen strewed the ground.
And wide-streamed rivers, in whose floods reflected we behold
The homes and bowers of kings and bards who lived in days of old,
Pass by in solemn, grand array, and as we gaze we think
How many ages men have toiled, fought, loved, beside their brink!
And ruins bleak, and temples old, by time or age o'erthrown,
Rise up to mark where tomb-stones lie, by fun'ral weeds o'ergrown,
While struggle with their darksome shade the antique lines which show
The names and stories of the dust which mould'ring lies below.
And lakes with breast of azure tinge and reedy zones appear,
Where, 'mid surrounding meadow-lands, we whiled the vernal year,
And lowing herd and bleating flocks live in our fancy's eye.
As when in life's bright morning-time, these visions passed us by.
Where'er a touch of Nature's hand has struck one early string,
There chiefly tend those airy sprites on gay and lightsome wing.
Where'er a brilliant joy has gleamed, a cherished hope lies hid
There go and come this wakeful band, untutored and unhid.
And often in joy's winter time, when cheerless bodings press,
When th' exile deems himself alone, or feels his hopes grow less.
This wizard band will flock around, and with one magic stroke
Call visions up, the brightest far on which thought e'er awoke.
All pleasures in the future dream'd by prophets or by seers.
They'll realise in charms which lie in dreams of bygone years,
With more than song's excelling art, a blissful calm they'll find,
And driving hence each growing fear, they'll leave repose behind.
Then, whether in your gladsome hour or in your drooping mood,
Welcome and cherish when they come this aerial sisterhood;
In all the ways of life they'll be a solace by your side,
And while they make you better men, they'll form your safest guide.