When the gay heart to life's sweet day-spring true,
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.
Blest Childhood, Hail!-Thee simply will I sing,
And from myself the artless picture bring;
These long lost scenes to me the past restore,
Each humble friend, each pleasure, now no more,
And ev'ry stump familiar to my sight,
Recalls some fond idea of delight.
This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat;
Here did I love at evening to retreat,
And muse alone, till in the vault of night,
Hesper aspiring, shew'd his golden light.
Here once again, remote from human noise,
I sit me down to think of former joys;
Pause on each scene, each treasur'd scene, once more,
And once again each infant walk explore.
While as each grove and lawn I recognize,
My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.
And oh, thou Power, whose myriad trains resort
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought;
Whose mirror held unto the mourner's eye,
Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy;
Blest Memory, guide with finger nicely true,
Back to my youth my retrospective view;
Recal with faithful vigour to my mind,
Each face familiar, each relation kind;
And all the finer traits of them afford,
Whose general outline in my heart is stor’d.
In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls,
In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls,
The village matron kept her little school,
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule;
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien,
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean:
Her neatly-border'd cap, as lily fair,
Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care,
And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn,
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn."
Faint with old age, and dim were grown
A pair of spectacles their want supplies;
These does she guard secure, in leathern case,
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.
Here first I enter'd, tho' with toil and pain,
The low vestibule of learning's fane:
Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way,
Tho' sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display.
Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn,
When I was first to school reluctant borne ;
Severe I thought the dame, tho' oft she try'd
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd;
And oft, when harshly she reprov'd, I wept,
lone corner broken-hearted crept,
And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. 65
But soon enur'd to alphabetic toils,
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;
First at the form, my task for ever truc,
A little favourite rapidly I grew;
And oft she strok'd my head with fond delight,
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight;
And as she gave my diligence its praise,
Talk'd of the honours of my fature days.
Oh, had the venerable matron thought,
Of all the ills by talent often brought;
Could she have seen me when revolving years
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears,
Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate
Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state;
Wish'd that remote from worldly woes and strife,
Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd thro' life.
Where in the busy scene, by peace unblest,
Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest?
A lonely mariner on the stormy main,
Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain;
Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore,
When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more?
Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave,
The sandy surface of his unwept grave.
Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms,
Serenest season of perpetual calms,—
Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease,
And joy to think with thee I tasted peace.
Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles,
But each new object brings attendant smiles;
When future evils never haunt the sight,
But all is pregnant with unmixt delight;
To thee I turn, from riot and from noise,
Turn to partake of more congenial joys.
'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon
When the clock spoke the hour of labour o❜er,
What clamourous throngs, what happy groupes were seen,
In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green.
Some shoot the marble, others join the chace
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 pig-stye for a town,
Pleas'd with our gay disports, the dame was wont
To set her wheel before the cottage front,
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 belov'd monotony of sound.
When tir'd 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 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.
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