Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

“I went to the place of my birth, and I said—The friends of my childhood, where are they?—and an echo answered, Where are they?” Arabic MS.—from Lord Byron.

I.

The spirit of my soul is changed,
My thoughts have ta'en a sadder hue,
Since last thy verdant lawns I ranged,
And bade them, with a tear, adieu!
And adverse fortune hath pursued
With gloomiest hatred thine and thee,
Forsaken mansion, since I stood
With them, where they no more shall be.
And they who smiled have learn'd to weep,
And they who loved are rent asunder;
Between them roars the angry deep—
Above them fate is black with thunder:
And moss and weeds grow on thy wall;
Deserted is my Father's Hall.

II.

Oh! my young heart danced to liveliest measures,
And my ardent pulse beat high;
And boyish joys, and hopes, and pleasures,
Flash'd merrily in my eye:
And smiling faces beam'd around me,
And all was mirth and glee,

And friendship's golden fetters bound me,
When last I look'd on thee.
But the dream of bliss is for ever fled,
And the friends of my childhood are absent or dead.

III.

Yet oft, in solitary hours,
Thine image floats across my brain,
And all thy beauteous woods and bowers
Rush on my soul again:
And I roam on the banks of thy old canal,
And I hear the roar of thy waterfall,
And well-known forms to my eyes appear,
And the voice of friends is in my ear;
And I view, by the light of the trembling moon,
The painted glass of thy old saloon,
On which, in childhood's artless days,
My wond'ring eyes were wont to gaze;
While oft, with fond and pious care,
My mother traced each semblance there,
And bade me mark the red drops flow,
In holy stains on my Saviour's brow,
And the crown of thorns that encircled his head,
And the cross that bore the Deathless Dead.
Long shall these hours my thoughts control,
So deep they sunk into my soul.

IV.

And oft I roved, with ardour young,
Through gothic arch and gallery long;
And view'd, emboss'd in panels high,
The 'scutcheons of my ancestry;
And portraits, ranged in order grave,
Of statesmen proud and warriors brave;
And dames who graced the festive sport
Of good King Charles's gallant court.
How reverend in my eyes appear'd
Each hoary head and flowing beard!

And how would fancy frame a tale
For ev'ry antique coat of mail,
And ev'ry scarf of lady bright,
Guerdon most meet for gallant knight,
Which painters' art had handed down
From distant ages of renown!

V.

But proudest was my bosom's swell,
And most my boyish soul was fired,
When gaily would my grandame tell,
How thither, with his court, retired
From realms by civil discord rent,
And fury of the Parliament,
That Prince of heart misled, but good,
Who stain'd the scaffold with his blood;
And how, from that old gothic door,
He heard the hostile cannon roar,
And caught afar the foeman's tramp,
And view'd the smoke of the rebel camp,
And sigh'd at each cannon that threaten'd the town,
And wept for his people, though not for his crown.
How oft I gazed, with anxious care,
On good King Charles's oaken chair;
And proudly laid my humble head
On good King Charles's royal bed;
And joy'd to see the nook reveal'd,
Where good King Charles had lain conceal'd
And tasted calm and safe repose
Surrounded by a thousand foes!

VI.

It soothes me now to think on days
When grief and I were strangers yet,
And feed, in thought, a frequent gaze
On scenes the heart can ne'er forget.
The friends who made those scenes so bright
Are torn for ever from my sight;

Their halls are falling to decay,
Or own an unknown master's sway:
But still upon my pensive soul,
The feelings of my younger day,
The hour of mirth, the party gay,
In blissful visions roll.
Oh! welcome, then, was December's blast,
As it drove on the snow-storm thick and fast,
And welcome the gloom of December's sky,
For they told of approaching revelry;
And gave the signal old and sweet,
For dearest friends in one Hall to meet,
Where jest, and song, and gallant cheer,
Proclaim'd the Christmas of the year.

VII.

Oh! then was many a mirthful scene,
And many a smiling face;
And many a meeting glad was seen,
And many a warm embrace;
And oft around the blazing hearth
Flew happy sounds of joy and mirth;
And laughter loud and sprightly joke,
Shook fretted roof and wall of oak:
And gaily flow'd each prattling tongue,
And all were merry—old and young;
And souls were knit in union blest
And every bosom was at rest.

VIII.

I may not view that Hall again,
I may not hear those sounds of gladness,
But their echoes linger in my brain—
A secret source of pleasing sadness.
Friends of my young and sinless years,
The long long ocean's waves divide us,
But memory still your names endears—
Still glows, whatever ills betide us.

Oh! oft on India's burning shore,
Ye will think on the home ye shall see no more,
And wish your heated limbs were laid
Beneath your own dear forest shade,
Where murmurs, in its cool retreat,
The well at which we used to meet,
When the setting sun of autumn stood
On the verge of the hill of Robin Hood,
And shed the mellow tints of even
O'er the dewy Earth and the silent Heaven.
Oh! when shall eve return again,
So sweet as those which bless'd us then?

IX.

But I must wake from this sweet dream,
Whose spells, perchance, too long have found me;
For manhood's prospects dimly gleam,
And manhood's cares are gathering round me.
I've made me new and cherish'd friends,
I've bound congenial bosoms to me;
But o'er the waves remembrance sends
A prayer for those who ne'er shall view me.
And oft I breathe a silent sigh
For hours and pleasures long gone by:
And each familiar face recall,
That smiled within that ancient Hall.

Fanuary, 1819.

The subject of these lines is not a fictitious one. The “Hall” was the residence of a relation, now dead; and many of my happiest hours were spent under its roof.