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What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were
In various postures scattering o'er the green! (seen,
Some shoot the marble, others join the chase
Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race;
While others, seated on the dappled grass,
With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass.
Well I remember how, with gesture starch’d,
A band of soldiers oft with pride we march’d;
For banners to a tall ash we did bind
Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind;
And for our warlike arms we sought the mead,
And guns and spears we made of brittle reed ;
Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown,
We storm'd some ruin'd pigsty for a town.

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was
To set her wheel before the cottage front, [wont
And o'er her spectacles would often peer,
To view our gambols, and our boyish geer.
Still as she look’d, her wheel kept turning round,
With its beloved monotony of sound.
When tired with play, we'd set us by her side
(For out of school she never knew to chide),
And wonder at her skill—well known to fame-
For who could match in spinning with the dame ?
Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride
To strangers, still her thriftness testified;
Though we poor wights did wonder much in troth,
How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth.

Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our To chat at home the vacant hour away. (play

Many's the time I've scamper'd down the glade,
To ask the promised ditty from the maid,
Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing,
While we around her form’d a little ring:
She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed,
Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed,
Or little children murder'd as they slept;
While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept.
Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we
Such hearts of stone there in the world could be.
Poor simple wights, ah! little did we ween
The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene!
Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know
This world's a world of weeping and of woe!

Beloved moment! then 'twas first I caught
The first foundation of romantic thought!
Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear,
Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear.
Soon stored with much of legendary lore,
The sports of childhood charm’d my soul no more.
Far from the scene of gaiety and noise,
Far, far from turbulent and empty joys,
I hied me to the thick o'erarching shade,
And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid,
While at my feet the rippling runnel ran,
The days of wild romance antique I'd scan;
Soar on the wings of fancy through the air,
To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there.



There are who think that Childhood does not share
With age the cup, the bitter cup, of care :
Alas! they know not this unhappy truth,
That every age, and rank, is born to ruth.

From the first dawn of reason in the mind,
Man is foredoom'd the thorns of grief to find;
At every step has farther cause to know
The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe.

Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caught With some new object for romantic thought, The impression of the moment quickly flies, And with the morrow every sorrow dies. How different manhood !—then does Thought's

control Sink every pang still deeper in the soul; Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart Becomes a painful resident in the heart; And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. Then, as each long known friend is summon'd hence, We feel a void no joy can recompense, And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb, Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom.

Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, No forms of future ill salute thy view, No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep, But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep,

And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life, Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal

strife. Yet e'en round childhood's heart, a thoughtless Affection's little thread will ever twine; [shrine, And though but frail may seem each tender tie, The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. Thus, when the long expected moment came, When forced to leave the gentle hearted dame, Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast, And a still tear my silent grief express’d.

When to the public school compell’d to go, What novel scenes did on my senses flow? There in each breast each active power dilates, Which 'broils whole nations, and convulses states; There reigns, by turns alternate, love and hate, Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate; And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere, The dark deformities of man appear. Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim, There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame, There mild Benevolence delights to dwell, And sweet Contentment rests without her cell; And there, ʼmid many a stormy soul, we find The good of heart, the intelligent of mind. 'Twas there, O George! with thee I learn'd to

join In Friendship's bands in amity divine. · Oh, mournful thought !—Where is thy spirit now? As here I sit on favourite Logar's brow,

And trace below each well remember'd glade, Where arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd. Where art thou laid-on what untrodden shore, Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar ? Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state, At last repose from all the storms of fate? Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save; See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend, And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend : Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way, While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife, Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. Again I see his door against thee shut, The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut; I see thee, spent with toil and worn with grief, Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief; Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er, Think on thy native land—and rise no more ! · Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode, Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road, That thou couldst see him at this moment here, Embalm thy memory with a pious tear, And hover o'er him as he gazes round, Where all the scenes of infant joys surround. Yes! yes ! his spirit's near!—The whispering

breeze Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees;

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