The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

Scene of my best and brightest years!
Scene of my childhood's joys and fears!
Again I gaze on thee at last;
And dreams of the forgotten past,
Robed in the visionary hues
That memory flings on all she views,
Come fleeting o'er me! I could look
Unwearied on this babbling brook,
And lie beneath this aged oak,
And listen to its raven's croak,
And bound upon my native plain,
Till fancy made me Boy again!
I could forget the pain and strife
Of Manhood's dark deceitful life;
I could forget the ceaseless toil,
The hum of cities, and the coil
That interest flings upon our hearts
As candour's faded glow departs;

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I could forget whatever care
It has been mine to see or share,
And be as playful and as wild
As when—a dear and wayward child—
I dwelt upon this fairy spot,
All reckless of a bitterer lot.
Then glee was high, and on my tongue
The happy laugh of folly hung,
And innocence looked bright on youth,
And all was bliss, and all was truth.

There is no change upon the scene,
My native plain is gaily green,
Yon oak still braves the wintry air,
The raven is not silent there;
Beneath my foot the simple rill
Flows on in noisy wildness still.
Nature hath suffered no decay;
Her lordly children!—where are they
Friends of my pure and sinless age,
The good, the jocund, and the sage,
Gone is the light your kindness shed,
In silence have ye changed or fled,
Ye and your dwellings! yet I hear
Your well-known voices in mine ear,
And see your faces beaming round,
Like magic shades on haunted ground

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Hark! as they murmur down the dell,
A lingering tale those voices tell;
And while they flit in vacant air,
A beauteous smile those faces wear:
Alas! I turn my dreaming eyes,
The lovely vision fades and flies;
The tale is done,
The smile is gone,
I am a stranger,—and alone.

Within yon humble cottage, where
The fragrant woodbine scents the air,
And the neat door looks fair to view
Seen through its leafy avenue,
The matron of the village school
Maintained her ancient state and rule.
The dame was rigid and severe,
With much to love, but more to fear;
She was my nurse in infancy;
And as I sat upon her knee
And listened to her stories, told
In dialect of Doric mould,
While wonders still on wonders grew,
I marvelled if the tale were true;
And all she said of valorous knight,
And beauteous dame, and love, and fight,
Enchanter fierce, and goblin sly,
My childhood heard right greedily.

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At last the wand of magic broke,
The tale was ended: and she spoke
Of learning's everlasting well,
And said, “I ought to learn to spell;”
And then she talked of sound and sense,
Of verbs and adverbs, mood and tense;
And then she would with care disclose
The treasured primer's lettered rows;
Whereat my froward rage spoke out
In cry and passion, frown and pout,
And, with a sad and loathing look,
I shrunk from that enchanted book.

Oh! sweet were those untutored years,
Their joys and pains, their hopes and fears;
There was a freshness in them all
Which we may taste, but not recall.
No!—Man must never more enjoy
The thoughts—the passions of the Boy;
The aspirations high and bold,
Unseen, unguided, uncontrolled;
The first ambition, and the pride
That youthful bosoms feel and hide;
The longings after manhood's sun,
Which end in clouds—as mine have done.

In yonder neat abode, withdrawn
From strangers by its humble lawn,

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Which the neat shrubbery enshrouds
From scrutiny of passing crowds,
The Pastor of the village dwelt:
To him with clasping hands I knelt
When first he taught my lips to pray,—
My steps to walk in virtue's way,—
My heart to honour and to love
The God that ruleth from above.
He was a man of sorrows: care
Was seated on his hoary hair;
His cheek was colourless; his brow
Was furrow'd o'er,—as mine is now;
His earliest youth had fled in tears,
And grief was on his closing years.
But still he met with soul resigned
The day of mourning; and his mind
Beneath its load of woe and pain
Might deeply feel, but not complain;
And virtue o'er his forehead's snows
Had thrown an air of meek repose
More lovely than the hues that streak
The bloom of childhood's laughing cheek;
It seemed to tell the holy rest
That will not leave the righteous breast,
The trust in One that died to save,
The hope that looks beyond the grave,
The calm of unpretending worth,
The bliss—that is not of the earth.

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And he would smile; but in his smile
Sadness would seem to lurk the while;
Child as I was, I could not bear
To look upon that placid air;
I felt the tear-drop in mine eye,
And wished to weep, and knew not why

He had one daughter.—Many years
Have fleeted o'er me, since my tears
Fell on that form of quiet grace,
That humble brow, and beauteous face.
She parted from this world of ill
When I was yet a child; but still,
Until my heart shall cease to beat,
That countenance so mildly sweet,
That kind blue eye and golden hair,
Eternally are graven there.
I see her still, as when she stood
In the ripe bloom of womanhood,
Yet deigning where I led to stray,
And mingle in my childhood's play;
Or sought my father's dwelling-place,
And clasped me in her fond embrace;
A friend—when I had none beside;
A mother—when my mother died.

Poor Ellen! she is now forgot
Upon the hearths of this dear spot:

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And they to whom her bounty came,
They who would dwell upon her name
With raptured voice, as if they found
Hope—comfort—riches in the sound,
Have ceased to think how Ellen fled;—
Why should they sorrow for the dead?
Perhaps around the festive board
Some aged chroniclers record
Her hopes, her virtues, and her tomb;
And then a sudden silent gloom
Creeps on the lips that smiled before,
And jest is still, and mirth is o'er.
She was so beauteous in her dress
Of unaffected loveliness,
So bright, and so beneficent,
That you might deem some fairy sent
To hush the helpless orphan's fears,
And dry the widow's gushing tears:
She moved in beauty, like the star
That shed its lustre from afar,
To tell the wisest on the earth
The tidings of a Saviour's birth:
So pure, so cheering, was her ray:
So quickly did it die away!

There came a dark infectious pest
To break the hamlet's tranquil rest;

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It came, it breathed on Ellen's face;
And so she went to death's embrace,
A blooming and a sinless bride;
And how I knew not—but she died.

I was the inmate of her home,
And knew not why she did not come
To cheer my melancholy mood;
Her father wept in solitude;
The servants wore a look of woe,
Their steps were soft, their whispers low;
And when I asked them why they sighed,
They shook their heads, and turned aside.

I entered that forbidden room:
All things were still!—a death-like gloom
Stole on me, as I saw her lie
In her white vest of purity.
She seemed to smile! her lips were wet,
The bloom was on her features yet:
I looked,—at first I thought she slept;
But when her accents did not bless,
And when her arms did not caress,
And when I marked her quiet air
And saw that soul was wanting there,—
I sat me on the ground, and wept!