 | Poems by John Howard Bryant |  |
MY NATIVE VILLAGE.
There lies a village in a peaceful vale,
With sloping hills and waving woods around,
Fenced from the blast. There never ruder gale
Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground;
And planted shrubs are there, and cherished flowers,
And brightest verdure born of gentle showers.
With sloping hills and waving woods around,
Fenced from the blast. There never ruder gale
Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground;
And planted shrubs are there, and cherished flowers,
And brightest verdure born of gentle showers.
'Twas there my young existence was begun;
My earliest sports were on its flowery green;
And often, when my school-boy task was done,
I climbed its hills to view the pleasant scene,
And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray
Shone on the height—the sweetest of the day.
My earliest sports were on its flowery green;
And often, when my school-boy task was done,
I climbed its hills to view the pleasant scene,
And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray
Shone on the height—the sweetest of the day.
8
There, when that hour of mellow light was come,
And mountain shadows cooled the ripened grain,
I watched the weary yeoman plodding home
In the lone path that winds across the plain,
To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play,
And tell him o'er the labors of the day.
And mountain shadows cooled the ripened grain,
I watched the weary yeoman plodding home
In the lone path that winds across the plain,
To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play,
And tell him o'er the labors of the day.
And when the woods put on their autumn glow,
And the bright sun came in among the trees,
And leaves were gathered in the glen below,
Swept softly from the mountain by the breeze,
I wandered, till the starlight, on the stream,
At length awoke me from my fairy dream.
And the bright sun came in among the trees,
And leaves were gathered in the glen below,
Swept softly from the mountain by the breeze,
I wandered, till the starlight, on the stream,
At length awoke me from my fairy dream.
Ah! happy days, too happy to return,
Fled on the wings of youth's departed years:
A bitter lesson has been mine to learn,
The truth of life, its labors, pains, and fears.
Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay;
A twilight of the brightness passed away.
Fled on the wings of youth's departed years:
A bitter lesson has been mine to learn,
The truth of life, its labors, pains, and fears.
Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay;
A twilight of the brightness passed away.
My thoughts steal back to that sweet village still;
Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise;
The play-place and the prospect from the hill,
Its summer verdure and autumnal dyes;
The present brings its storms; but, while they last,
I shelter me in the delightful past.
Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise;
The play-place and the prospect from the hill,
Its summer verdure and autumnal dyes;
The present brings its storms; but, while they last,
I shelter me in the delightful past.
| Poems by John Howard Bryant | |