Poems on different occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ask not why oft my charmed sight
I bend along that lawn and grove,
Ask not why thus my steps delight,
Along that mountain side to rove,
Nor ask why by that wandering brook,
I linger long with earnest look.

That lawn and grove no scenes display,
That other lawns and groves surpass;
Dark pines that mountain-side array,
And thinly shade its walks of grass;
Thro' whispering reeds that streamlet glides,
And humble osiers crown its sides.

But, ah! this is the well known space,
Seen after tedious years are past,
Within whose bound which well I trace,
My part of sprightly youth was cast:
My infant steps have trod this green,
These banks my early sports have seen.

O! haunts, long from my sight withdrawn,
Oft to my mind by fancy brought,
How gladly now I trace each lawn,
Where jocund youth its pleasures sought,
Where I was wont in careless play,
With Lycon oft to waste the day.

Can'st thou not tell, O! limpid stream,
For far we stray'd not from thy side,
How oft to shun the summer beam,
We wont to plunge into thy tide,
How oft we swept thy ice-bound flood,
When winter stirr'd our youthful blood?

Together by the tinkling rill
We bent our sportive bows at morn,
Together round the pine-clad hill
We urg'd the chase with sounding horn,
Or to the hazle-bank retir'd,
We sung what oft the muse inspir'd.

But, ah! how happy was that day,
When love first taught me her soft law,
When in the shades in early may,
The blooming Myra first I saw:
How beauteous was she by that wood,
How gazing on the nymph I stood!

From yonder mead, to grace her hair,
I cull'd the lilly and fresh rose,
In yonder bower, to sooth the fair,
Soft numbers for my reed I chose;
We sat beneath yon poplar shade,
These willows heard the vows we made.

But why these scenes should I retrace,
Nor seek to taste such joys again?
The lawn, the grove, each well known place,
The hill and limpid stream remain;
The poplars green their shadow spread,
And May with fresh flowers crowns the mead.

Then bring to me my polish'd bow,
And bring the pipe of tuneful breath,
And let me crop the flowers that blow,
And let me twine a fragrant wreath,
So shall I all the joys renew,
Which here in youthful days I knew.

But from the softly-whispering reeds,
And from the stream that glides below,
With plaintive sound a voice proceeds,
Whose tender accents feebly flow,
“Forbear fond man, it seems to say,
Forbear and chase these dreams away.

The hill, the lawn, the well-known bowers,
The mead and silver stream remain,
The breath of spring calls forth the flowers
To crown once more the dewy plain:
But, ah! thy youth on hasty wing
Is flown, nor knows returning spring.

Thy art may teach the pipe to blow,
Thy hand may grasp the bow once more,
But can the pipe or polish'd bow
Thy careless youth to thee restore?
Or can the flowery garland chace
The wrinkles printed on thy face?

Will Lycon now his bed forsake
If thou at dawn shalt wind the horn?
Will Myra at thy call awake
If thy soft flute resound at morn?
Ah! no: dark tombs their ashes keep,
Within the peaceful grove they sleep.

Then rather go to yon dark towers
Along whose walls pale ivy creeps,
Go thou and deck that spot with flowers,
Where Lycon near thy Myra sleeps,
An aged yew tree marks the place,
Each tomb pale stones of marble grace.

There sit, and while thy pensive mind
Calls back these golden days again
When Myra to thy love was kind,
When Lycon trod with thee the plain,
Think that thou also soon shalt have
Thy dwelling with them in the grave.”