COME back, come back, my childhood,
To the old familiar spot,
Whose wild flowers, and whose wild wood
Have never been forgot.
It is the shining river,
With the bulrush by its tide,
Where I filled my green rush quiver
With arrows at its side;
And deemed that knightly glories
Were honored as of old;
My head was filled with stories
My aged nurse had told.
The Douglas and the Percy
Alike were forced to yield;
I had but little mercy
Upon the battle-field.
Ah! folly of the fancies,
That haunt our childhood's hour,
And yet those old romances
On after life have power;
When the weight appears too weary
With which we daily strive,
'Mid the actual and the dreary,
How much they keep alive!
How often, amid hours
By life severely tried,
Have I thought on those wild flowers On the sweet Wear's silver tide. Each ancient recollection
Brought something to subdue;
I lived in old affection,
And felt the heart was true.
I am come again with summer,
It is lovely to behold,
Will it welcome the new comer,
As it seemed to do of old?
Within those dark green covers,
Whose shade is downward cast,
How many a memory hovers
Whose light is from the past!
I see the bright trout springing,
Where the wave is dark yet clear,
And a myriad flies are winging,
As if to tempt him near.
With the lucid waters blending,
The willow shade yet floats,
From beneath whose quiet bending
I used to launch my boats.
Over the sunny meadows,
I watch them as of old,
Flit soft and sudden shadows
That leave a greener gold;
And a faint south wind is blowing
Amid the cowslip beds,
A deeper glow bestowing
To the light around their heads.
Farewell, sweet river! ever
Wilt thou be dear to me;
I can repay thee never
One half I owe to thee.
Around thy banks are lying
Nature's diviner part,
And thou dost keep undying
My childhood at my heart.
DEATH OF LOUIS OF BOURBON,
How actual, through the lapse of years,
That scene of death and dread appears,
The maiden shrouded in her veil,
The burghers half resolved, half pale;
And the young archer leant prepared,
With dagger hidden, but still bared-
Are real, as if that stormy scene
In our own troubled life had been.
Such is the magic of the page
That brings again another age.
Such, Scott, the charms thy pages cast,
O, mighty master of the past!
THOU lovely and thou happy child,
Ah, how I envy thee!
I should be glad to change our state,
If such a thing might be.
And yet it is a lingering joy
To watch a thing so fair,
To think that in our weary life
Such pleasant moments are,
A little monarch thou art there,
And of a fairy realm,
Without a foe to overthow,
A care to overwhelm.
Thy world is in thy own glad will,
And in each fresh delight,
And in thy unused heart, which makes
Its own, its golden light.
With no misgivings in thy past,
Thy future with no fear
The present circles thee around,~
An angel's atmosphere.
How little is the happiness
That will content a child-
A favorite dog, a sunny fruit,
A blossom growing wild.
A word will fill the little heart
With pleasure and with pride;
It is a harsh, a cruel thing,
That such can be denied.
And yet how many weary hours
Those joyous creatures know;
How much of sorrow and restraint
They to their elders owe!
How much they suffer from our faults! How much from our mistakes!
How often, too, mistaken zeal
An infant's misery makes!
We overrule, and overteach,
We curb and we confine,
And put the heart to school too soon
To learn our narrow line.
No; only taught by love to love,
Seems childhood's natural task;
Affection, gentleness, and hope,
Are all its brief years ask.
Enjoy thy happiness, sweet child,
With careless heart and eye;
Enjoy those few bright hours which now,
E'en now, are hurrying by ;-
And let the gazer on thy face
Grow glad with watching thee,
And better, kinder;-such at least
Its influence on me.
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