And wonder at her skill-well known to fame-
For who could match in spinning with the dame?
Her sheets, her linen, which she shew'd with pride,
To strangers, still her thriftness testified;
Tho' we poor wights did wonder much in troth,
How 'twas her spinning manufactur'd cloth.
Oft would we leave, tho' well belov'd, our play,
To chat at home the vacant hour away.
Many's the time I've scamper'd down the glade,
To ask the promis'd ditty from the maid,
Which well she lov'd, as well she knew to sing,
While we around her form'd a little ring:
She told of innocence fore-doom'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 poësy charm'd mine infant ear.
Soon stor❜d 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'er-arching 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 thro' 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 further 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 out-brave,
Pursues its feeble victim to the grave.
Then, as each long-known friend is summon'd hence,
We feel a void no joy can recompence,
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,
pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep, But Halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, And sanguine hope thro' every storm of life,
Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife. Yet even round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shrine, Affection's little thread will ever twine;
And tho' 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, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find
The good of heart, the intelligent of mind.
'Twas there, Oh 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 fav'rite 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 convuls'd, 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 could'st from thine august abode,
Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road,
That thou could'st 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;
And lo! his form transparent I perceive,
Borne on the grey mist of the sullen eve,
He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe,
While deathly silence reigns upon the globe.
Yet ah! whence comes this visionary scene?
'Tis fancy's wild aërial dream I ween;
By her inspir'd, when reason takes its flight,
What fond illusions beam upon the sight!
She waves her hand, and lo! what forms appear!
What magic sounds salute the wondering ear!
Once more o'er distant regions do we tread,
And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead;
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