LAPSE OF YEARS.
��COME to thy native village, thou, who long
Hast been a denizen of richer climes
And prouder domes. Nature in her best garb
Welcomes thee back, and like a peasant-friend
Exulting, filleth at her cottage-door
The beechen cup, with honied balm, for thee.
She fain would tell thee tales of every change
In her slight drama, since thou last wert here,
Tho' none her scene hath shifted, or exchang'd
Her honest-hearted actors, save grey Time,
Scattering the elm-leaves o'er the russet walk,
Or to the seedling in its bed of mould
Whispering that spring had come. She bids thee si
Thy favourite brook, where memory, ancient crone,
Waiteth to point thee where thy tiny boat
Or water-wheel sped gaily, 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.
�� �
