 | Xeniola |  |
14
HOME.
Haunts of my youthful days, though
distant far,
My spirit is with you! oh, I could weep,
Vexed with the jarrings of this noisy world,
To think upon thy deep tranquillity,
Mine own loved home! the struggles and the strife
Of worthless ones, that sink into the heart,
Turned all its blood to poison!—I have thought
Of thee, and I am calm! thy trees arose
Brightening before mine eye: the pleasantness
That slumbers in thy vallies—the soft hues
That bathe thy sunny hills—all met my soul:
And lovelier far than Nature's outward forms,
The spirit of Domestic Happiness:
The voice of her I loved was in my ear,
She smiled serenity, and I am calm.
My spirit is with you! oh, I could weep,
Vexed with the jarrings of this noisy world,
To think upon thy deep tranquillity,
Mine own loved home! the struggles and the strife
Of worthless ones, that sink into the heart,
Turned all its blood to poison!—I have thought
Of thee, and I am calm! thy trees arose
Brightening before mine eye: the pleasantness
That slumbers in thy vallies—the soft hues
That bathe thy sunny hills—all met my soul:
And lovelier far than Nature's outward forms,
The spirit of Domestic Happiness:
The voice of her I loved was in my ear,
She smiled serenity, and I am calm.
Haunts of my childhood, now I think of you,
And thoughts and feelings gush along my heart,
Sweet as the music of my native stream!—
—Feelings more holy never, with the breeze
Of evening, stole into the spirit of him
Who plies his bark on Uri's lonely lake,
And meditates on Tell—the while he sees,
Darkening the wave beneath, the fane which speaks
The patriot's triumph, and his country's love:
The tear is on his cheek—his heart is full—
A brighter tinge hath lit his streaming eye,
With gentler sweep he draws the gliding oar,
Fearful to break those shadows on the wave,
Which wake such deep, such sacred sympathies!—
And thoughts and feelings gush along my heart,
Sweet as the music of my native stream!—
—Feelings more holy never, with the breeze
15
Who plies his bark on Uri's lonely lake,
And meditates on Tell—the while he sees,
Darkening the wave beneath, the fane which speaks
The patriot's triumph, and his country's love:
The tear is on his cheek—his heart is full—
A brighter tinge hath lit his streaming eye,
With gentler sweep he draws the gliding oar,
Fearful to break those shadows on the wave,
Which wake such deep, such sacred sympathies!—
Haunts of my childhood, are ye still as fair
As when I wandered through each green recess?
Still does the soft breeze, with his idle breath,
Stirring at once a thousand twinkling leaves,
Utter neglected music?—does the cloud,
In whose dark womb the noon-day sun is hid,
Whose folds are lightly coloured with his beams,
Still hang as lovely in the silent sky?—
Is Nature still the same, although no more
An eye is there, to hold deep intercourse
With all her forms, although no heart is there
To feel her power and hymn her holiness?
Oft have I thought some bond of mighty strength
Had linked me in a strange identity
With outward accidents of Nature—oft,
Methought, some spell of more than human force
Had lulled to rest my individual self,
And that one soul inspired the scenes around,
The spacious sky—the universal air—
And him, who gazed in rapture on the sight!
And now in crowded city, oh, how strange,
How impious does this separation seem
From all I wish and love—even from myself!
—Yet have I oft-times held communion high
And holy with the absent scenery;
Oft listened, till within the silent soul
Was heard the flow of waters, and the stir
Of summer leaves—till every form I loved
Was with me—till I ceased to be alone.
Dear are such visions to the thinking soul,
And like in love, as in their nature like,
To those fair forms, that having passed from earth,
Return at twilight, and the musing man
Before whose eye they move, conceives their looks
Chastened, refined, and purified by Death!
As when I wandered through each green recess?
Still does the soft breeze, with his idle breath,
Stirring at once a thousand twinkling leaves,
Utter neglected music?—does the cloud,
In whose dark womb the noon-day sun is hid,
Whose folds are lightly coloured with his beams,
Still hang as lovely in the silent sky?—
Is Nature still the same, although no more
An eye is there, to hold deep intercourse
With all her forms, although no heart is there
To feel her power and hymn her holiness?
Oft have I thought some bond of mighty strength
Had linked me in a strange identity
With outward accidents of Nature—oft,
Methought, some spell of more than human force
Had lulled to rest my individual self,
16
The spacious sky—the universal air—
And him, who gazed in rapture on the sight!
And now in crowded city, oh, how strange,
How impious does this separation seem
From all I wish and love—even from myself!
—Yet have I oft-times held communion high
And holy with the absent scenery;
Oft listened, till within the silent soul
Was heard the flow of waters, and the stir
Of summer leaves—till every form I loved
Was with me—till I ceased to be alone.
Dear are such visions to the thinking soul,
And like in love, as in their nature like,
To those fair forms, that having passed from earth,
Return at twilight, and the musing man
Before whose eye they move, conceives their looks
Chastened, refined, and purified by Death!
Spirits, that oft on light and dewy wing
Hovered around the cradle of my childhood,
Touching the dreaming infant's cheek with smiles,
And, in the hours of my advancing age,
Have, with such music as the unseen lark
Oft sends into the morning traveller's soul,
Poured strains of more than earthly melody,
In calm and awful accents, to the heart,
Breathing along those inward chords that thrill
With unbid impulse to the poet's lay;
—Spirits, ye have not yet deserted me!
Ye have not left me, darkly wandering,
Companionless, unguided in a world
I cannot mingle with! conflicting men
May rudely throw me from their noisy converse,
Or stretch the hand of seeming brotherhood,
And mock with their love—
Hovered around the cradle of my childhood,
Touching the dreaming infant's cheek with smiles,
And, in the hours of my advancing age,
Have, with such music as the unseen lark
Oft sends into the morning traveller's soul,
Poured strains of more than earthly melody,
In calm and awful accents, to the heart,
Breathing along those inward chords that thrill
17
—Spirits, ye have not yet deserted me!
Ye have not left me, darkly wandering,
Companionless, unguided in a world
I cannot mingle with! conflicting men
May rudely throw me from their noisy converse,
Or stretch the hand of seeming brotherhood,
And mock with their love—
Haunts of my youth,
Ye will not mock me, and ye cannot change!
Ye will not mock me, and ye cannot change!
1814.
| Xeniola | |