led me to the journal, my confidante from childhood, and it records a few such effusions as the following:
Dear native earth, sweet spot of rest,
In summer's fair attractions drest;
Wild springing flowers, romantic shores,
Gray cliffs, where light-wing'd Fancy soars;
Green valleys where my childhood rov'd,
Deep groves, in musing youth beloved,
Loved scenes where social virtues dwell
In sweetest harmony—farewell!
Dear parents' home of happiness,
Which hovering angels deign to bless;
Where every pain my heart could know,
And every care, and every woe,
Were ruled by soft affection's sway,
And banish'd from their haunts away—
Still lingering in this sacred cell,
The gushing tear-drops say—farewell!
Thou too, my harp! and can it be,
That I must bid adieu to thee?
Thou, who hast cheered me day and night,
Turn'd every gathering shade to light,
And made a lot the world might scorn,
Bright as the rose-ray of the morn;
Oh! dearer far than words can tell,
My wild, my mountain-harp—farewell!
Yet all perturbations were allayed, and for a season dispersed, when the long, journalizing letters of my
