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RECOLLECTIONS OF HOME.
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have concluded, they may better their condition if they can.
If hops were to be had here, I should try to brew some beer, which would be wholesomer than rum.
I had flattered myself, that, with the help of time and philosophy, the headlong current of my feelings would have been moderated and lowered down even to sluggishness; but some passing[1] thought to-day opened a flood-gate which let them rush in upon me like an overwhelming current. I remembered the scenes of home, and the hour of parting, with a painful minuteness of detail, and a vividness of reality, which fell little
- ↑ 1=The following lines naturally suggest themselves here.—Ed.
"But ever and anon of griefs subdued
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever: it may be a sound—
A tone of music—summer's eve—or spring—
A flower—the wind—the ocean—which shall wound,
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.
"And how and why we know not, nor can trace
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind;
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind,
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd
When least we deem of such, calls up to view
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind,
The cold—the changed—perchance the dead—anew
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost—too many!—yet how few!"
