Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights A Gift of Love for the Beautiful |
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MEMORIAL OF MY CHILDHOOD. |
 | Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights |  |
68
MEMORIAL OF MY CHILDHOOD.
How sweet to remember the Oaks of my childhood,
Whose cool, shady twilights were haunts of my youth;
Those tall, emerald Pine trees that waved in the Wildwood,
Whose boughs, in the breeze, sang the music of Truth.
And oh! to remember the China Tree growing
Beside the big road serpentining the State,
Where often I shot, with my Cross-bow, when snowing,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate;
And shot with my Cross-bow—my Mulberry Cross-bow,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate.
Whose cool, shady twilights were haunts of my youth;
Those tall, emerald Pine trees that waved in the Wildwood,
Whose boughs, in the breeze, sang the music of Truth.
And oh! to remember the China Tree growing
Beside the big road serpentining the State,
Where often I shot, with my Cross-bow, when snowing,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate;
And shot with my Cross-bow—my Mulberry Cross-bow,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate.
And oh! how delightful the clear, crystal waters
Flowed sporting along through the wood-skirted Vale,
Where mother once walked with her dear little daughters,
And combed down their dark, glossy locks in the gale.
How fondly I marched with my Cross-bow and arrows,
That hung on my arm as I ambled along,
Where all the day long I have hunted the sparrows,
And listened at eve to the Mocking-bird's song;
And shot with my Cross-bow—my Mulberry Cross-bow,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate.
Flowed sporting along through the wood-skirted Vale,
Where mother once walked with her dear little daughters,
And combed down their dark, glossy locks in the gale.
How fondly I marched with my Cross-bow and arrows,
That hung on my arm as I ambled along,
Where all the day long I have hunted the sparrows,
And listened at eve to the Mocking-bird's song;
And shot with my Cross-bow—my Mulberry Cross-bow,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate.
There are four sombre Oaks o'er the Well-top inclining,
That Nature, in sport, planted out for a shade—
So near equidistant, with artful designing,
That strangers believed them an artful Arcade.
'Twas there the old Scullion suspended the butter,
While I, with my Cross-bow, sat high in the tree,
And shot at the Robins, while sister would mutter,
And wistfully look through the boughs up at me;
And shot with my Cross-bow—my Mulberry Cross-bow,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate.
That Nature, in sport, planted out for a shade—
So near equidistant, with artful designing,
That strangers believed them an artful Arcade.
'Twas there the old Scullion suspended the butter,
While I, with my Cross-bow, sat high in the tree,
And shot at the Robins, while sister would mutter,
And wistfully look through the boughs up at me;
And shot with my Cross-bow—my Mulberry Cross-bow,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate.
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Ah! then I was happy—with love overflowing—
But knew not the value of pleasure by pain—
Till Grief's bitter frost nipped my Roses while blowing,
And now I can never be happy again!
And oh! to remember that Dayspring of pleasure,
Unmixed with the present reflection in pain,
Methinks it were well to look back on the Treasure,
And strive all my life to procure it again;
And shoot with my Cross-bow—my Mulberry Cross-Bow,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate.
But knew not the value of pleasure by pain—
Till Grief's bitter frost nipped my Roses while blowing,
And now I can never be happy again!
And oh! to remember that Dayspring of pleasure,
Unmixed with the present reflection in pain,
Methinks it were well to look back on the Treasure,
And strive all my life to procure it again;
And shoot with my Cross-bow—my Mulberry Cross-Bow,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate.
How gladly I roved through the Suckle-gemmed Valley—
The grove where the Wash-woman filled up her tank;
And stood by the Well in the green Oaky Alley,
And turned down the old Cedar Bucket and drank.
But, farewell, ye Oaks, and the Trees of my Childhood,
And all the bright scenes appertaining to joy—
I think of ye often away in this Wildwood,
But never shall be as I was when a boy;
Nor shoot with my Cross-bow—my Mulberry Cross-bow,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate.
The grove where the Wash-woman filled up her tank;
And stood by the Well in the green Oaky Alley,
And turned down the old Cedar Bucket and drank.
But, farewell, ye Oaks, and the Trees of my Childhood,
And all the bright scenes appertaining to joy—
I think of ye often away in this Wildwood,
But never shall be as I was when a boy;
Nor shoot with my Cross-bow—my Mulberry Cross-bow,
The Robins that perched on the boughs near the Gate.
Transylvania University, April 10, 1830.
| Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights | |