"Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound,
And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round.
'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring,
And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing.
Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear,
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear.
Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood,
Or viewed the forest-feats of Robin Hood:
Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower;
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep,

Murder'd by ruffian hands when smiling in its sleep.
Ye household deities! whose guardian eye
Mark'd each pure thought ere register'd on high;
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,
And breathe the soul of inspiration round.
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.
The storied arras, source of fond delight,

With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight;
And still, with heraldry's rich hues impress'd,
On the dim window glows the pictured crest.
The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart;.
The clock still points its moral to the heart;
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear,
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near:
And has its sober hand, its simple chime,
Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time?
That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought,
Whence the caged linnet sooth'd my pensive thought;
Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; [dust,
Those once-loved forms, still breathing through their
Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast,
Starting to life, all whisper of the Past!

As through the garden's desert paths I rove,
What fond illusions swarm in every grove!
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,
We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest;
Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing,
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring!

How oft inscribed with Friendship's votive rhyme,
The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time;
Soar'd in the swing, half pleased and half afraid,
Through sister elms that waved their summer shade;
Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene,
The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green!
Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live!
Clothed with far softer hues than light can give.
Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below,
To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know;
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm,
When nature fades, and life forgets to charm;
Thee would the muse invoke! to thee belong
The sage's precept and the poet's song.
What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals,
When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals!
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,
Long on the wave-reflected lustres play;
Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd,
Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind.
The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray,
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay.
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,
Quickening my truant feet across the lawn:
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,
When the slow dial gave a pause to care.
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear,
Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here;
And not the lightest leaf but trembling teems
With golden visions and romantic dreams!

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The gipsy's fagot: there we stood and gazed; Gazed on her sunburn'd face with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed;

Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest

shade,

When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:
And heroes fled the sibyl's mutter'd call,
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall.
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And traced the line of life with searching view,
How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and
To learn the colour of my future years! [fears,
Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast;
This truth once known-to bless is to be bless'd!
We led the bending beggar on his way
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray),
Sooth'd the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt.
As in his scrip we dropp'd our little store,
And sigh'd to think that little was no more,
He breathed his prayer, "Long may such goodness
'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. [live!"
But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell,
The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell!
It calls me hence, beneath their shade to trace
The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.
On yon gray stone that fronts the chancel door,
Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more,
Each eve we shot the marble through the ring,
When the heart danced, and life was in its spring;
Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth.

The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed,
Where now the sexton rests his hoary head.
Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade,
He lectured every youth that round him play'd;
And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay,
Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.
Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone
I search the records of each mouldering stone.
Guides of my life! instructers of my youth!
Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of Truth;

Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd;
In age beloved, in poverty revered;
In Friendship's silent register ye live,
Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give.

But when the sons of Peace, of Pleasure sleep,
When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep,
What spells entrance my visionary mind
With sights so sweet, with transports so refined!
Ethereal power! who at the noon of night
Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight;

From whom that musing, melancholy mood,
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good;
Bless'd Memory, hail! Oh grant the grateful muse,
Her pencil dipp'd in Nature's living hues,

To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll,
And trace its airy precincts in the soul,

Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,
Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain.
Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
Each, as the various avenues of sense
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,
Brightens or fades! yet all, with magic art,
Control the latent fibres of the heart,
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell
Drew every subject-spirit to his cell;
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,

As judgment dictates or the scene inspires.
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course,
And through the frame invisibly convey
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play.
Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore;
From Reason's faintest ray to Newton soar.
What different spheres to human bliss assign'd!
What slow gradations in the scale of mind!
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought;
Oh, mark the sleepless energies of thought!

The adventurous boy that asks his little share, And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer,

Turns on the neighbouring hill once more to see
The dear abode of peace and privacy;

And as he turns, the thatch among the trees,
The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze,
The village common spotted white with sheep,
The churchyard yews round which his fathers sleep;
All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train,
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again.
So, when the mild Tupia dared explore
Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before,
And, with the sons of Science, woo'd the gale
That, rising, swell'd their strange expanse of sail;
So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu,
Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe,
And all his soul best loved: such tears he shed,
While each soft scene of summer beauty fled.
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast,
Long watch'd the streaming signal from the mast;
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye,
And fairy-forests fringed the evening sky.

So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawn'd the day,
Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away.
Her eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering height,
That faintly tipp'd the feathery surge with light;
But now the morn with orient hues portray'd
Each castled cliff and brown monastic shade:
All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring,
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing!
Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire,
As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire.

And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth,
Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth.
Hence homefelt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh;
This makes him wish to live and dare to die.
For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate
Venice should blush to hear the muse relate,
When exile wore his blooming years away,
To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey,
When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause,
For this he roused her sanguinary laws;