CHANGES.
Come to thy native village, thou, who long
Hast been a denizen of richer climes
And prouder cities. Nature all adorn'd
Welcomes thee back, and, like a peasant-friend
Exulting, filleth at her cottage-door
The beechen cup, with honey'd balm, for thee.
She fain would tell thee tales of every change
In her slight drama since thou last wert here,
Though none her scene hath shifted, or exchanged
Her honest-hearted actors, save gray Time,
Scattering the elm-leaves o'er the russet walk,
Or to the seedling in its bed of mould,
Whispering that spring hath come. She bids thee seek
Thy favourite brook, while Memory, ancient crone,
Waiteth to point thee where thy tiny boat
Or water-wheel sped gayly, or to show
The broader pool, upon whose icy glade
Thy foot was fleetest, while thy merry voice
Rang like a bugle when the shout was high.
See'st thou yon blooming creature, sweetly deck'd
With all the grace of perfect womanhood?
Lo, thou hast taken her ofttimes in thine arms,
When but a few brief moons had o'er her roll'd,
And sang to please her, though the watchful nurse
Was fain to snatch her from thine untaught hand,
Fearing thy whisker'd cheek might frighten her.
