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,
Violets so fresh, so deeply blue,
Or snow-drops of such pearly hue,
As thou didst strew, with aspect bland,
To roving eye and careless hand.
Stern winter now hath hushed thy lay,
And mixed thy russet locks with grey,
And dashed thy frost-bound chalice down,
And reft the blossoms from thy crown;
But breasts that glow with love for thee,
From wintry torpor still are free,
And hearts that drew from thee their breath,
Should know no ice, save that of death.
Those rugged features, sternly fair,
Those craggy summits, bleak and bare,
But most of all, yon sylvan shades,
Deep-hidden dells and lone cascades,
From richer climes, and scenes more gay,
Have won my soul's first love away.
Home of my birth! old Time hath not,
To mar and scathe thy brow forgot,
Dark stains upon thy walls to fling,
And shade thy casements with his wing;
And pampered taste, and frowning pride
Might well thy humble roof deride,
But childhood's careless heart, its rest
Doth build, as light as ring-dove's nest,
And to the lowly dwelling bring
A wealth that mocks the sceptred king.
Thee, too, embowered 'mid rocks, I spy,
Meek dome where science met our eye,
Where knowledge spread her infant lore,
Revealing joys unknown before,
While friendship's charms, that ne'er can cloy,
Enhanced the student's silent joy.
Return once more, ye much loved throng!
Replete with beauty, youth and song,
Your greeting smiles were fond and fair,
I stretch my arms—ye are not there;
I call—ye answer not the strain,
Haunt, bower and hearth, I search in vain,
Where are ye?—distant echoes drear,
And Death's dark caverns answer—here.
Thus like the pageant of a dream,
This shadowy span of life doth seem,
Thus, in the twinkling of an eye
The mourner with the mourned shall lie.
Land of my birth! a few times more
Winter may scathe thy temples hoar,
Or Summer, with unsandled foot,
Her sickle to thy harvest put;
And then, should kind remembrance save
One wild-flower garland for my grave,
Or from Oblivion's voiceless shore
One solitary trace restore,
Then let the cherished record be,
My hope in heaven, my love to thee.