Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dear scene of childhood's happy hour!
I feel thy softly-soothing power;
Again I view thy well-known walls!
Again I tread thy classic halls!
Here scenes of simple pleasure rise
In sweet succession to my eyes;
And here does pensive memory love
With many a fond regret to rove:
She loves, in each remember'd place,
Improvement or delight to trace;

For still instruction's genial power
With learning wing'd the fleeting hour,
And yet, so mild her gentle sway,
That pleas'd the youthful band obey.

Within the dome with learning stor'd,
Our daily studies we explor'd;
Or when, th' allotted lesson done,
Had struck the wish'd-for hour of one,
From care, from woe, from envy free,
We sported here with frolic glee.
My fair companions! though no more
Ye bound across the well-known floor,
Though few of all the youthful train,
Within these peaceful walls remain,
Yet still can faithful memory trace
The features of each blooming face!
To me their graceful forms appear!
Each gentle voice I seem to hear!

And fancy lends her vivid ray
To gild fair childhood's halcyon day!

Here in the Garden's ample shade
Through many a happy hour we play'd;
And still yon sunny path retains
The boundaries of our small domains.
Yes, still is seen the tiny bower,
The mimic walk, the drooping flower;
Turf, such as cheers th' imprison'd lark;
Pales that might bound a fairy park;
And fairy elves were here, I ween,
As light of heart, as gay of mien,
As ever midnight circle drew,
Or from the acorn sipp'd the dew.
Though blundering zeal and lack of skill,
The flower we lov'd, contriv'd to kill;
The deftest gardener of us all
Has known such evil chance befal;

Yet never blossom seem'd so fair
As the small plants we tended there;
Sweet mignonette, or flaunting pea,
Young rose and stunted myrtle tree:
'Twas sweet, at evening's sportive hour,
To pluck the long-expected flower,
Our own dear flower, with hope so gay
Nurtur'd and watch'd from day to day:
'Twas sweeter still to bid it deck,
With childish love, some playmate's neck;
That rose to every rose prefer,
Yet wish it fairer still for her.
There was but one, one only breast,
On which my treasur'd sweets could rest;
'Twas Zosia's; lovely, wise and good,
And sprung of Poland's noblest blood:
To others haughty she might be,
But kind and gentle still to me;
And, constant to the maid I lov'd,
With Zosia still I fondly rov'd.

In yon deserted path we walk'd,
Of home and our dear parents talk'd,
Or glowing with some rural theme,
Together wove the fairy dream:
For even then could nature's charm
My young imagination warm;
And landscapes, mountainous and wild,
Had charm'd the visionary child;
For I had heard old Ocean roar,
And chafe 'gainst Dorset's rocky shore;
Had listen'd to the sea-bird's cries,
Had mark'd the gathering tempest rise,
And, fearless 'mid the deafening jar,
Had watch'd the elemental war.

But chief in some sequester'd cot
I sigh'd to fix my tranquil lot;
Some straw-roof'd cot, 'mid southern vales,
And fann'd by Devon's balmy gales;

The white-wash'd walls and lattice clean,
Scarce through the twining jasmine seen;
The little garden's simple bound
With rose and myrtle fenc'd around;
A nameless, winding streamlet there,
'Midst shaggy copse-wood glistening fair;
While sheltering trees behind it rise,
And mountains towering to the skies:
In such a cot what bliss to dwell
With those dear friends I lov'd so well!
And still is childhood's happy dream
Of youth's romantic wish, the theme;
No cot to me so fair appears,
As that my glowing fancy rears,
And, e'en 'mid Berkshire's woody vales,
I sigh for Devon's balmy gales.

With lofty tales of feudal power
Would Zosia charm the lingering hour;

Describe her father's princely dome,
The splendors of her native home;
The slaves, that follow'd where she trod,
And swift obey'd her slightest nod;
Yet had she learnt, on this blest shore,
To wish that slavery liv'd no more,
For many a tale of negro woe
Had bid her generous bosom glow:
Pitying, she sigh'd at their distress,
And languish'd for the power to bless.
Perchance it might be her's to save,
From equal grief, some Polish slave!
To life, to liberty restore!
And bid his bosom bleed no more!—
Alas, my dear-lov'd friend, 'tis thine
In hopeless, helpless woe, to pine!
'Tis thine in youth's enchanting hour,
And grac'd with beauty's witching power,
Of every kindred friend bereav'd,
In every cherish'd hope deceiv'd,

To learn in that lov'd land to mourn,
An orphan, friendless, and forlorn!—
But still, my Zosia, youth and health
Are thine, and mines of mental wealth:
Again may prosperous Fortune pour
Fresh blessings from her golden store;
Some kindred spirit bid arise
Thy yet unwaken'd sympathies;
Till Poland's dreary deserts prove
A paradise illum'd by love!

But where is she, the only fair
Whose charms with Zosia's could compare,
The sweet Eliza? polish'd grace
Deck'd her fair form and lovely face;
Whilst the pure influence of her soul
Shed soften'd radiance o'er the whole:
Breath'd in her voice, when Handel's strain
Seraphic, thrill'd through every vein,

Gave added force to Boileau's sense,
Or glow'd in Milton's eloquence.
Her's was high honor; spotless truth!
Her's the gay laughing charms of youth!—
O where is now that lovely form?
Where that pure heart in feeling warm?
Where the sweet smiles that nature gave?
They rest in dear Eliza's grave:
In youth's fair spring, in beauty's pride,
In virtue's early prime—she died.

Yet still the echoing chambers ring
To fair Victoria's magic string:
Sweet tuneful maid! at her control
Alternate passions fire the soul!
As o'er her harp with bending grace
The strings her flying fingers trace,
Now lightly rings the sprightly measure
To gayest airs of joy and pleasure;

And now, with high and haughty sound,
The mimic notes of war rebound:
Sudden they pause, and soft and slow,
In murmuring cadence, sad and low,
Some sweetly plaintive melody
At distance seems to fall and die.
With mute delight we hover near
The strains, which still we seem to hear!
To move, to breathe, we scarcely dare,
So soft, so sad, so sweet the air!
Nor yet alone by music's art
Can fair Victoria charm the heart!
Whether she join in converse gay,
Where wit and frolic fancy play,
Or, whether on her pitying breast
She lull a brother's cares to rest;
Still ever lovely, ever dear,
Of temper soft, and heart sincere,
Her varying charms the soul inspire,
And all the beauteous maid admire.

There grace and symmetry combine,
To mock the sculptor's skill divine,
And round the young Olivia glows
A brighter charm, than beauty knows.
Who can, like her, with sylphid grace
The “poetry of motion” trace?
In airy bound, or slow advance,
Thread the soft mazes of the dance?
In easy elegance recline,
Or in light sportive movement twine?
Whilst modesty's celestial veil
Improves the charms it would conceal;
And in that mild and polish'd mien,
Shines spotless innocence serene.
Yet those blue eyes and looks demure,
That speak a heart both cold and pure,
Are oft by radiant fancy lit,
And sparkle with Hibernian wit;

Till scarce the gentle girl we know
Who hides, like Etna crown'd with snow,
The fires that in her bosom glow.
There too presides the gentle fair,
Who made me her peculiar care,
To me by every tie endear'd!
And still admir'd, belov'd, rever'd!
Skill'd in the rare and happy art
To win the timid, youthful heart;
By manners grac'd with courtly ease,
By playful wit, secure to please.
But who shall tell her mind's rich store,
Imbued with many-languag'd lore?
Who shall the thousand virtues tell,
That in her gentle bosom dwell?
Oh! could I catch from you, bright dame!
One spark of your immortal flame,
My verse should pay the tribute due
To friendship, gratitude, and you!

'Twas your's, with polish'd art to twine
A lovely wreath for Flora's shrine;
To fairest flowers fresh beauties give,
Which in your glowing strains shall live,
And bid each opening bud impart,
Some lesson to the female heart.
And now, with nobler visions fir'd,
By friendship's holy zeal inspir'd,
At her pure altars, lo! you bend;
To her poetic vows ascend;
For her you tune the warbling string,
Her triumphs and her joys to sing;
And emulate the classic fame
Of Rogers' and of Campbell's name.

Lov'd friend of childhood's early day,
Still deign to guide my devious way!
What though I fondly strive in vain
Like you to frame the polish'd strain;

Though no bright rays of genius fire,
But faintly breathes the trembling lyre;
Yet be your bright example mine,
And lead my steps to virtue's shrine!