MY NATIVE PLACE.
Blest land! where first without a thorn,
The germs of infant hope were born,
Where budding joys sprang fair and new
To meet the sun, and drink the dew;
Though scenes more wonderful and wild,
Have since my charmed eye beguiled,
Yet none have with such graphic art
Impressed their semblance on my heart,
And none can boast thy magic power
To rule the musing, twilight hour.
Come in thy garb of rock and stream,
With wind-swept harp and sunset gleam,
And eye o'er dizzy heights ascending,
And voice with falling waters blending;
Come!—for my filial feelings greet
Thine image with communion sweet.
Nurse of my earliest dreams! how dear
Still steals thy music o'er my ear,
From warbling nest, or summer-shower,
Or mountain streamlet's murmuring power,
Or liquid flute, where graceful glides
Some fairy boat, o'er moon-lit tides;
Still rise those tones, with tuneful swell
From miser-memory's treasure-cell.
Nurse of my youth! what clime hath spread
In sheltered nook, or vernal bed,
