EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.
Pleasure and wealth to our lot may be granted,—
Love may a far-distant mansion endear, —
Yet who can forget the soft soil where were planted,
Those first germs of bliss never wet with a tear?
Rude frowning rocks, Nature's loveliness spurning,
May rise to disfigure the spot of our birth,
But with rapture's warm thrill the glad wanderers returning
Will press their fond lips to their dear native earth.
Green-house exotics may glow in our tresses,
The pride of the florist expire on our breast,
But sweeter are these than the wild-flower that dresses
The vale, by the sports of our infancy blest?
Music with pomp and expression may greet us,—
Still Memory will cherish, melodious and free,
The song of the birds that would warble to meet us,
In childhood's gay season, from thicket and tree.
The clouds may be rich, where the sun is reposing,—
But soon must they shroud him in darkness forlorn,
And the day of our life, though it brighten at closing,
Can never restore the enchantments of morn.