I peopled all the walks and shades
With images of thine;
The lime-tree was a lady’s bower,
The yew-tree was a shrine:
Almost I deemed each sunbeam shone
O’er banner, spear, and morion.
Now, not one single trace is left
Of that sequestered nook;
The very course is turned aside
Of that melodious brook:
Not so the memories can depart,
Then garner’d in my inmost heart.
The past was his—his generous song
Went back to other days,
With filial feeling, which still sees
Something to love and praise,
And closer drew the ties which bind
Man with his country and his kind.
It rang throughout his native land,
A bold and stirring song,
As the merle’s hymn at matin sweet,
And as the trumpet strong:
A touch there was of each degree,
Half minstrel and half knight was he.
How many a lonely mountain glade,
Lives in his verse anew,
Linked with associate sympathy,
The tender and the true;
For nature has fresh beauty brought,
When animate with life from thought.
’Tis not the valley nor the hill,
Tho’ beautiful they be,
That can suffice the heart, till touched
As they were touched by thee;
Thou who didst glorify the whole,
By pouring forth the poet’s soul.
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