The Desolation of Eyam The Emigrant, a Tale of the American Woods: and other poems. By William and Mary Howitt |
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A SISTER'S RECOLLECTIONS.
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 | The Desolation of Eyam |  |
67
A SISTER'S RECOLLECTIONS.
TO A. H.
Come now a little while
Grant me a gossip's right, and I will fill
Thy spirit with the pleasures of the past.
We were playmates together; from one book
We drew the lore of childhood; on one couch
We slept; one joy, one spirit seemed to stir
And animate our being. Two buds that grew
Upon one stem, two birds within one nest,
Were not more like than we.
Grant me a gossip's right, and I will fill
Thy spirit with the pleasures of the past.
We were playmates together; from one book
We drew the lore of childhood; on one couch
We slept; one joy, one spirit seemed to stir
And animate our being. Two buds that grew
Upon one stem, two birds within one nest,
Were not more like than we.
Oh! might I but recall
To thee the days gone by;
They have not perished all;
Their memory could not die.
Thou wilt retrace the past
With feeling like to mine;
And backward vision cast,
As on a sainted shrine,
Round which our youthful faith did lasting garlands twine.
To thee the days gone by;
They have not perished all;
Their memory could not die.
Thou wilt retrace the past
With feeling like to mine;
And backward vision cast,
As on a sainted shrine,
Round which our youthful faith did lasting garlands twine.
68
See'st thou a grassy glade
Within a leafy wood,
Or bowery dwelling made
In forest solitude?
A river's sedgy side,
Or lone heath brown and still,
Or landscape stretching wide,
Seen from a breezy hill,
That does not all thy soul with former pleasures fill?
Within a leafy wood,
Or bowery dwelling made
In forest solitude?
A river's sedgy side,
Or lone heath brown and still,
Or landscape stretching wide,
Seen from a breezy hill,
That does not all thy soul with former pleasures fill?
Does not the slight hare-bell
Recall the ruin hoar;
And Croxden's abbey cell
Rise to thine eye once more?
Does not the shrouding yew
Around the fallen tower,
Bring Chartley to thy view?
And scarce a tree or flower
But has a tale for thee of some delightful hour?
Recall the ruin hoar;
And Croxden's abbey cell
Rise to thine eye once more?
Does not the shrouding yew
Around the fallen tower,
Bring Chartley to thy view?
And scarce a tree or flower
But has a tale for thee of some delightful hour?
69
Live, for a little while,
In Needwood's mossy shade;
Its memory may beguile
Where children we have played.
We've wandered 'neath the grey
And gnarled oaks around,
And listened, through the day,
To catch the ticking sound
The grasshopper would send from out the leafy ground.
In Needwood's mossy shade;
Its memory may beguile
Where children we have played.
We've wandered 'neath the grey
And gnarled oaks around,
And listened, through the day,
To catch the ticking sound
The grasshopper would send from out the leafy ground.
Our garden and our flowers
Thou wilt remember long;
How many summer hours
We spent their sweets among;
Our home so free from care,
How could we it resign?
With its pleasant windows, where
The moon-beams used to shine
Through the screening pear-tree leaves, and the wreathing jessamine.
Thou wilt remember long;
How many summer hours
We spent their sweets among;
Our home so free from care,
How could we it resign?
With its pleasant windows, where
The moon-beams used to shine
Through the screening pear-tree leaves, and the wreathing jessamine.
70
Dost thou not call to mind
That southern porch, and feel,
As we have felt, the wind
Through the honied woodbine steal?
The fir-trees, do they rise
In vision, and recall
The violet's downcast eyes,
And the ivy on the wall,
The sun-flowers, and the Indian wheat with its plumed coronal?
That southern porch, and feel,
As we have felt, the wind
Through the honied woodbine steal?
The fir-trees, do they rise
In vision, and recall
The violet's downcast eyes,
And the ivy on the wall,
The sun-flowers, and the Indian wheat with its plumed coronal?
We've rambled many a day
To many a pleasant place;
Time cannot steal away
Their memory. Thou wilt trace
The blessed hours we spent
In sunshine, and in shade;
How, pilgrim-like, we went,
How joyously we strayed
Where birds, and sun, and flowers, all paradise had made.
To many a pleasant place;
Time cannot steal away
Their memory. Thou wilt trace
The blessed hours we spent
In sunshine, and in shade;
How, pilgrim-like, we went,
How joyously we strayed
Where birds, and sun, and flowers, all paradise had made.
71
And, if now 'tis thine to be
In any lovelier spot,
Is it not dear to thee
As these are unforgot?
Thy rambles on the shore;
The lone and hidden bay;
The ocean's ceaseless roar;
The graceful billows' play;
And the mighty vessel bound on its joyous, homeward way.
In any lovelier spot,
Is it not dear to thee
As these are unforgot?
Thy rambles on the shore;
The lone and hidden bay;
The ocean's ceaseless roar;
The graceful billows' play;
And the mighty vessel bound on its joyous, homeward way.
All these have charm and might
To rouse the poet's dream;
But they stir not the delight
Of memory, like a stream
That, through a summer wood,
Keeps on its ceaseless play;
A soul in solitude,
That passeth not away,
But, beautified by flowers, reviveth them alway.
To rouse the poet's dream;
But they stir not the delight
Of memory, like a stream
That, through a summer wood,
Keeps on its ceaseless play;
A soul in solitude,
That passeth not away,
But, beautified by flowers, reviveth them alway.
72
No more;—I need not shew
To thee the days gone by;
They have not perished,—no,
Their memory could not die!
It is not such as thou
With whom the past doth fade;
Thy spirit gathers now
From the treasury we made,
And the colouring of gone days on our passing hours is laid.
To thee the days gone by;
They have not perished,—no,
Their memory could not die!
It is not such as thou
With whom the past doth fade;
Thy spirit gathers now
From the treasury we made,
And the colouring of gone days on our passing hours is laid.
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