LANDSCAPE LYRICS.

Spread are dawn's radiant wings, Its dazzling feet pursue their silent way, Leaving no shadow, for each coming ray A general brightness brings. The vapour from the brow Of the old mountain crests, begins to part, Like care from off the forehead, and the heart— And all is cloudless now! The universal air, The smiling sky, and the far-stretching mead— All nature, in its varied forms agreed, Mingle their beauties there! The ripple of the wave, Beachward returning to the distant shore, Like a lone pilgrim to the cottage door, That once a welcome gave: The new-waked laureat bee, On the flower-blossom, breathing in its mirth, Its conch-like matin song, to greet the earth, With ever grateful glee! The landscape's free expanse, And all the harmonies that, spread around, Combine the joys of hearing, sight, and sound, Are gathered at a glance; And powerfully they tell, With deeper eloquence than notes divine, Of many things that round our heart-strings twine, And in our fancies dwell; Of boyhood's sportive days, The thymy glade, the daisy blooming there, The vale remote, or lake secluded, where The smiling sunbeam plays; The gay flowers on the plain, Gemming the mead, perfuming all the wood; As if each Summer morn was Spring renew'd, Or May-day come again! The music of the birds, Telling all sleepers of the birth of day, And, with reviving Nature, haste to pay Their homage, not in words! The dreamy waterfall, Babbling and bubbling from the upland spring; The soaring crag where eaglets rest their wing, Listening the eagle's call: The minstrel streamlet near, The zephyr's breath, too languid for a breeze, That stirs, yet scarcely moves, the gentle trees, Touching the waters clear. The sunrays, as they pass Into broad sunshine, throw their light on all, With bloom and blossom, whereso'er they fall; On mount, or meadow-grass. And something more than light Sleeps on the verdant hill-side; dreams of love, And glimpses of the happier state above, Burst on the mental sight.

Meet 'tis to watch and spy, The laughing Orient, like a chubby child, Bringing new joyousness to wood and wild, To ocean, earth, and sky. The groups of early flowers To th' enamoured sun their bosoms ope,— Apt emblems of the welcome birth of Hope, In life's oft darkened bowers. Pass to the green hill-side, And let us wander where the wild flowers grow, Gaze on the sedgy stream's calm depths below, Where gentle minnows glide. The sheltered cuckoo's notes, In the young sunshine, echo on the ear— A moving voice, from all around, is here!— Hymns from a thousand throats:— The spirit grows the more Refined and holy, as we stand and gaze Upon the landscape, brightening in the blaze That gilds both land and shore. All objects, far and near, The light of morn illumines; it is now That man can walk erect with glowing brow, And heart devoid of fear. And, lo! there is a stir In yonder village, bosomed in the dell, Like a meek babe, loved by its mother well, And loving nought but her! Where claims the eye to rest? Earth has a balmy look, and so has Heaven; And thoughts, like mazy clouds through ether driven, Float in th' enraptured breast. The sylvan haunts, where youth Roams, fancy led, all glorious in their hue; The quaint sequestered spots and paths we view, Where Age consorts with Truth. Read we of aught that wakes High inspiration in the soul, in scenes like these? The tufted trees' fantastic tapestries— Romantic knolls and brakes; The hill-enskirted glen, Where bound the wild deer; and the huntsman's horn Sounds from afar, a welcome to the morn, Till Echo sounds again! And more than all, the old And pyramidal mountains, that with time Have stood, defying change, and storm, and clime, As none else of earth's mould Hath done: the sun embrowns, But does not scorch them; rain, and wind, and snow, Renew them, not destroy; no waste they know, But lasting glory crowns. Still to the heart endeared Are sights like this we gaze on. Do we deem That they are other than a privileged dream?— One that the mind has reared!

Lo! like an eastern king, Forth marches Sunshine gorgeously through earth, By health attended, and life-giving mirth, And heralded by Spring. Light through the untrack'd air, Pursues its course authentic; hill and dale Rejoice, and Nature cries, "All hail!" As if a king were there. The elevated lawns, Where first the day comes, and where last retires, Rejoicing seem; their light the mind inspires, And thought, like morning, dawns. The wild, yet artless breeze, Now, in the ear of Nature, sings its song, Wandering green fields and flowery banks among, And over shadowy seas. Soft falls the sunlight down On the old castle that, above the dell, Stands in its glory, lone, as if to tell Some tale of past renown. The hamlet in the vale, The church beside the stream that winds remote Among the hills—the smoothly-going boat, That midway hoists its sail. A scene like this is rife With pleasurable feelings, as with grace; Perhaps we here, instructively, may trace Some simile of life! The grey and steadfast hills Tell of the old immortals of past time: And, looking downward, beauty, in its prime, The heart with rapture fills. The care-escaping deer Descend together from the uplands, while The sprouting grass puts forth a pleasant smile, As if to tempt them near. The sinless flowers, away In the far inward forest paths bestrown, Are yet not solitary, though alone; None are so glad as they. The comely violets Their leaf-buds open, and the sunshine seek; The pastures fresh their grateful homage speak, Untinctured with regrets. The virgin rose assumes A bridal bearing, as if noonday came, With brighter countenance, its love to claim, And revel 'midst its blooms: The prattle of the brook, The lazy clouds that, hung in middle sky, Exulting in the balm, float listless by, Reflecting back their look: The buds, the herbs, the leaves, Each, and all things that blossom, bless the rays Of the bright sun, and, as they bless, they praise The bounteous Hand that gives!

Now glory walks abroad, And on the quiet unassuming stream, And on the rock-ribbed hills, gently its beam All lovely is bestowed. The daizy-footed day, O'er the far mead, in virgin radiance comes, While the bee, jubilant, its welcome hums, And passes on its way. The lily, in its bloom, Of the lone valley, where the breezes sing Of love, beside the violet-crested spring, And heather-bell's perfume: And beauty, without guile, It pictures dreams of in the bounding breast, And love-breathed vows, and unions that are blest, And childhood's fairy smile: The mountain's verdant side, Where visioned poesy delights to show The sights of Heaven to gentle minds below: The heath-bank in its pride: The broken branch, grass-hid, On which the goat-herd leans, while, far aloof, His bounding charge rest th' adventurous hoof Where man's foot dare not tread: The cushat in the wood, Where the laburnum and the lilac grow; The placid rill, wandering away below, As one for earth too good: The dim-seen paths remote, That lead to lone retreats and leafy cells, Where, like a bashful fay, the fancy dwells, And many-imaged thought: The vintage and its cheer, The peasant, sun-embrown'd, and flow'r-deck'd maid, The festooned village, music in the shade, To charm th' expectant ear: The flow'ret in the wild, The mossy resting place, 'neath oaks antique: The half-grassed foot-track worldlings do not seek, Where poets are beguiled: The foam-bell on the wave; The full-sailed vessel on its homeward track; The smile that lights the sorrowing sinner back: The primrose on a grave! The berry's purple shine, Grape-like and lustrous, scattered 'mid the waste: The sprinkled heath-flower, healthful, golden-paced: The patriarchal pine: The memories of all Telling of pleasures rare, and jocund ease, In deep-toned joyousness, yea, more than these, The sunbeam does recall: The hope of life above; Rich buds of promise springing everywhere; The grace-blest gifts that come without our care, From all-providing Love!

In what delightful land, Sweet-scented flower, didst thou attain thy birth? Thou art no offspring of the common earth, By common breezes fanned! Full oft my gladdened eye, In pleasant glade, on river's marge has traced, (As if there planted by the hand of Taste), Sweet flowers of every dye: But never did I see, In mead or mountain, or domestic bower, 'Mong many a lovely and delicious flower, One half so fair as thee! Thy beauty makes rejoice My inmost heart.—I know not how 'tis so,— Quick-coming fancies thou dost make me know, For fragrance is thy voice: And still it comes to me, In quiet night, and turmoil of the day, Like memory of friends gone far away, Or, haply, ceased to be. Together we'll commune, As lovers do, when, standing all apart, No one o'erhears the whispers of their heart, Save the all-silent moon. Thy thoughts I can divine, Although not uttered in vernac'lar words: Thou me remind'st of songs of forest birds; Of venerable wine; Of Earth's fresh shrubs and roots; Of Summer days, when men their thirsting slake In the cool fountain, or the cooler lake, While eating wood-grown fruits: Thy leaves my memory tell Of sights, and scents, and sounds, that come again, Like ocean's murmurs, when the balmy strain Is echoed in its shell. The meadows in their green, Smooth-running waters in the far-off ways, The deep-voiced forest where the hermit prays, In thy fair face are seen. Thy home is in the wild, 'Mong sylvan shades, near music-haunted springs, Where peace dwells all apart from earthly things, Like some secluded child. The beauty of the sky, The music of the woods, the love that stirs Wherever Nature charms her worshippers, Are all by thee brought nigh. I shall not soon forget What thou hast taught me in my solitude: My feelings have acquired a taste of good, Sweet flower! since first we met. Thou bring'st unto the soul A blessing and a peace, inspiring thought! And dost the goodness and the power denote Of Him who formed the whole.

Is vision-land so near, And we not know of it? Oh! dull and dead Must be the heart, the passions cold as lead, That find no beauty here! Fresh o'er th' awakened earth, Now all the glories of the Summer shine; And Nature, as if drunk with olden wine, Is laughing in its mirth! And melodies are heard From far and near, and sounds that stir the heart, Sweeter than fancy dreams of, when slow Art To rival them has erred. All things become more pure And hallowed to the view: the very flowers Seem smiling in a world more rich than ours— A birth-place more secure! The berry of the wood Blooms with new lustre, 'neath the golden ray Of the warm sunshine, resting by the way, Where the green forests brood. The old and reverend trees, And clustering thickets, now are gladly sought By him who from the heat would stray remote, And rest his limbs at ease. The smell of new-mown hay Revives the heart, like as at evening time We love to listen to the tinkling chime Of sheep-bells far away. And, lo! the rustic cot, On the smooth margin of the quiet lake, Where wedded Love and pleased Content partake Their enviable lot: Where, daylong, may be seen Two sister swans, disporting in their joy; The happy parents, with their baby-boy, Reclining on the green. Decay should seem unknown— But spiteful Time its certain change prepares: Light has its shade, and pleasure has its cares; Music its saddened tone: Summer its springing weeds, And trodden flowers that tell of bygone joys, And thoughts long since forgotten, 'mid the noise That from man's haunts proceeds. How beautiful the sight! Why should we think of change for scenes like this? Fair as a poet's thought, when thought is bliss, And all he sees is light! Let but th' enraptured eye Once look upon the landscape's gorgeous train And, like a kiss upon the brow of pain, That brings a solace nigh, In after years 'twill rest Within the memory, with bloom and balm, Refreshing to the soul, like a sweet calm On ocean's troubled breast.

A blaze is in mine eyes Of rich and balmy light; and on mine ear A sound of melody is ringing clear, Like carols in the skies: And on my heart the while There rests, like Love, when Hope is bright as this, A charm to soothe, a thrill of good to bless; A universal smile! Is it a picture limned By some high intellect where genius throngs? Are these the echoes of celestial songs, By angel-voices hymned? Am I on earth, in air, In heaven, or on the sea,—with ocean's sights, And ocean's sounds,—that I partake delights, And visions see so fair? Ah, me! a shadow steals From out the mountains, like a lurking grief; As on our happy home, the silent thief His hateful eye reveals; Bringing me down from heaven To this dull earth, whereon my footsteps tread— The sky, so calm and pure above my head, Health to my soul has given! And now, before me placed, What is there to rejoice the eye or ear? All that the heart deems fair is surely here, By God's own fingers traced: And bounteously his gifts He has bestowed upon the growing land; Her paths are teeming from his lib'ral Hand, That knows no grudging thrifts. Up looks the toiling hind, And wipes his brow, and rests upon his spade; The idle herdsman, in the hawthorn shade, A-weary lies reclined. The village church is seen, Light streaming through its windows, soft and fair, Like rays of mercy, answering the prayer Of penitence serene. 'Midst fairy scenes like these, Whose fruitage beautiful allures each sense, And whose green leaves, in blooming eloquence, Exert their aim to please, Can thought, in its career Of joy, pause midway, and with care alight?— Can fancy, eagle-winged, restrain its flight, To dream of winter drear? In noonday's warmest ray We deem that darkness has our clime forsook: Backward or forward we refuse to look; But on the present stay. Yet let not gloom be here! The Earth rejoices now in Nature's prime; Season of joy,—the holiday of Time,— The Sabbath of the year!

Think not the poet's song Worthless or idle; do not deem his lay Fantastic, that he offers by the way, To make it seem less long. His numbers have their use, Though foolish they may sound to worldling's ear; His own lot, if no other's, they may cheer; His own content produce. Does he not add a light To earth-born beauty, wanting it unknown? To bloom give balm, to melody a tone, Make brightness seem more bright? Does he not fill the air With sights, and shapes, and shadows?—make the sky The dwelling-place of beings, which no eye But his can image there? And more than all, his lay Awakes new feelings in the human heart, And visions bring that never can depart, When once they feel his sway. To him the power is given To soothe the broken heart, the care-worn mind; And the waked soul in dreams ecstatic bind, And bear away to heaven: For to none else does earth Look with so fair a promise; yea, to none Speaks she with such an eloquence of tone, Or to such thoughts gives birth, Ah! who may analyse The cloistered feelings of the poet's soul, When Nature's impulse vibrates through the whole, And Truth, that never dies! Creation's beauties bring Renewed enjoyment, and his genius fire; For every sight, and every sound, inspire His inmost heart to sing! His birthright is to live In citizenship with Nature;—to hold Communion with her mysteries, his old And high prerogative! Seeks he for wealth, denied By worldlings, lucre-led, of sordid mind; His heritage,—free, fertile, unconfined,— Is Nature's pastures wide. Pants he for peace, to throw A solace on his soul? The voice that breathes Its music, 'mong the wild flowers' clustering wreaths, Does to his heart bestow A bliss that none can share, Save him whom Nature to some far-sought wild Has led, anointed as her chosen child, And made her sacred care. Where'er the breezes roam, The mountains soar, or ocean's wave is thrown, The poet's spirit, free as Nature's own, Finds for itself a home!

The orchard's plenteous store, The apple-boughs o'erburdened with their load, That passers-by may gather from the road, Hang now the near walls o'er: And filberts, bursting fair, Seduce the loiterer to reach the hand, And pluck the offered treasures of the land, With wood-nuts that are there. The still hill-sides are clad With bloom; the distant moorland now is bright With blossom, and with beauty; the rich sight The heart of man makes glad. The hamlet is at peace; And, in the ripened fields, the reapers ply Their useful labour; while a golden sky Smiles on the soil's increase. To the romantic spring, That gushes lone beneath the neighbouring hill, The cottage maidens go, their jars to fill, While carols rude they sing! Sweet is the cuckoo's song In early Spring, and musical and blessed The nightingale—young Summer's lutenist— Pours its gay notes-along; And, in the thunder's roar, In Autumn, when the sudden lightnings flash, Sweet sings the missel-thrush amid the crash, The bursting tempest o'er! As solitary tree, That, pilgrim-like, scathless, amid the shock Of rudest storms, that burst the sterner rock, Stands in its grandeur free. But sweeter than them all, And softer than the voice of love returned, Are the untutored lays of lips sunburned, From village maids that fall! To schoolboys' feelings dear Is rich-toned Autumn. Oh! with what a zest They plunge in stream retired,—despoil a nest,— Or ramble far and near. How oft, when changeful Time Has sprinkled o'er our locks its silver threads, Remembrance brings to mind—and gladness sheds— The pastimes of our prime! The lowing of the kine, In distant meadow-glades, comes on the ear, With taste of nature fresh, like far-off cheer Of rustics, as they join The merry dance at eve; Each rural sound has in it joy and health: Man now should garner thought, as well as wealth, And gladly truth receive. The calm and picturesque; The foliaged cedar, and the wreathëd beech, More glowing thoughts and impulses can teach Than Learning from his desk!

Now, Autumn's mantle brown Falls on the woods and fields, the leaves are sere, And, like sad offerings to the rifled year, They drop in clusters down: The land is lone and bare; The grateful trees themselves of leaves divest To form a covering for earth's naked breast, With reverential care; For why should they be left In all their foliage, when the sunshine's grace Is gone from off the hills, and Nature's face Is of its charms bereft? The distance grey, becomes Like a thin thread of silver, long drawn out;— But hark the cheerful tabor, and the shout! The sound of merry drums! Now sportive Harvest-Home By vintagers and villagers is held, And heart-bright wine, and strong-lipped ale are welled, Like water at the foam: And labourers rejoice, That fruits of field and orchard all are housed; And the glad song of thankfulness is roused From every manly voice! The high ancestral hall,— Where Health delights to dwell, and generous Mirth Holds, when the corn is gathered from the earth, A grateful festival,— Adorns the waning scene. Here may be heard, when in a musing mood, The cawing of the old rooks in the wood, That flanks it like a screen. Is there not much to cheer In the glad sounds that still from hill and vale, And glen remote, come echoed on the gale To greet th' excited ear? Lo! o'er the changing sward Sweep now the huntsmen in the rapid chace, The deep-toned yell of hounds, mouthing the trace Of the fleet deer, is heard. In lone and hoary wood, Where the wild cherry and the yellow elm Commingled with the oak, the soul o'erwhelm With visions many-hued; There comes a solemn tone, Like what is felt, in passing down the while Some old cathedral's venerable aisle,— A feeling all its own! But now, at close of day, When the damp vapoury veil of eve is gone, Of gathering winds, the mournful dirge-like moan, Sounds wildly far away. For winter casts its shade Before it, and the year begins to feel Its chilling influences on it steal, Like touches of the dead!

Light on the landscape shines Awhile, ere vanishing, as loth to leave;— Upon the mead, the wearied ox at eve Familiarly reclines. The plough is left a-field, And the rude labourer, from his toil set free, Leads his tired steads forth o'er the upturned lea, Refreshing drink to yield. The hills with light are dyed; And pointing spires peer o'er the distant trees, As one tall vessels in the horizon sees, Careering in their pride! Each meek flower, white and red, That tufts the meadow, in fresh odour sleeps, Ere the departing Day from off the steeps Lifts his resplendent head. The golden-tissued clouds, Amid which now the Sun, world-worshipped, sinks, Retain his glory still upon their brinks, As gloom the earth enshrouds! Slowly the darkness creeps Up the lone hill-sides, shadow-like, by sighs Of ev'ning lullabyed, as on man's eyes Steals slumber ere he sleeps! Thus on the mountain-oak, And on the hoary castle's ruined walls, The rotting ivy, clinging as it falls, Seems their past strength to mock. Exalted are the thoughts That rise within our souls at such a time; The vast, the wild, the awful, the sublime, Embodied, round us floats! And the hushed spirit seems To listen to the tones from giants flung; Echoes of war-songs, that of old were sung, Now rush like mountain streams: And what come on the sight Are not the puny visions of the day; The near and the familiar pass away, With the departing light: Each mountain range that towers In desert grandeur o'er the darkening scene, Looks like a spirit standing now between Another world and ours! Oh! ye time-honoured hills, The Ancient, the Immortal—is it not A high-born privilege ne'er to be forgot, To feel none of earth's ills? Sublime ye are as Heaven! Though bleak not barren, silent yet not dumb, From out your shadows health and music come, And thronging thoughts are given! Not worthless is your aim, To stand from age to age, from hour to hour, The Almighty's temple, token of his power, And record of his name!

Now enter we within The shadows of the ev'ning, as they wind Around the mountains' summits, and remind Our startled souls of sin, Coiling, like serpent twist, Round every thought and impulse; thus the night Brings down its sable curtain o'er the sight, And veils the world in mist. The shrill-piped curlew's song Wanders, like poesy, in distant glades; And inexpressive notes that to eve's shades Are fitted, pass along! The beetle's drone is heard, Dull, sluggish, heavy, in the dark-hued lane: And, hark! afar, the melancholy strain Of Echo!—twilight's bard! At this lone hour we seek Some quiet spot, to meditation free;— When the Material we do not see, Then Fancy may bespeak Aught that she will;—the dim And shadowy her peopled world, she finds Forms in the darkness;—in the troublous winds Can trace a conqueror's hymn! Sleep has its dreams, and night Its inspirations,—bounding, changing still,— Imagination on some shrouded hill Does, eagle-like, alight. Ah! not an hour ago Here hamlets stood, and palaces, and fields: What man has furnished, what creation yields, And what the earth does grow: And now, where are they all? Gone with the mighty, vanished with the past: For twilight, enviously, has o'er them cast Her black unpiercing pall, And shut all out to sight.— Oh! bat-eyed vision! Oh! weak mortal eyes! Are there no mountains left—no shining skies— No rivers clothed in light? Are there no happy broods Of little flowers in rustic ways remote? No pathways to the woods? And, oh! fell thought, No golden-foliaged woods? Such fancies rise to sight In night's tranquillity, where Thought is born;— But back the laughing world will come with morn— Life is not all a blight! Should clouded be to-day, Bring yesterday, and all its joys to view;— Though no to-morrow offers to renew Their smile—'tis not away! 'Twill dawn in after-time On memory.—The charm of Nature's looks, The voice of birds, the minstrelsy of brooks, Live ever in their prime!

The early bridal Moon Comes in her splendour forth, and walks between The stars of Heaven, like an anointed queen Amid her maids at noon. Now from the sleeping hills The spectral mist-wreaths quickly pass away, Beneath her pale, but earth enamoured ray, And glory all things fills. Forth let us wander, led By odours sweet; leaving th' accustomed way, The valley seek we, where the moonbeams stray, Like May-flowers newly shed! The distant streamlets sing Their vesper hymn.—Is there a voice below Can give such music, mingled with such woe, Or can such rapture bring? In the far wild we hear That soothing tone its murmurings repeat, And the more sad, the sweeter, as is meet The spirit lone to cheer. Fair is the sky, and fair The earth; and yet 'tis but the moon, this night, That lights them both, and makes them look so bright,— Clothes them in beauty rare! And who are they that come Into the moonlight from the tranquil shade, And then shrink back, as to be seen afraid, With feelings that are dumb? Two lovers fond and true Holding communion with each other's hearts;— The first pure glow of love that ne'er departs, Which moonlight scenes renew. Who has not on the moon Looked long and musingly, and, looking, dreamed Of love and loveliness? Who has not deemed Its ray a granted boon? The unveiled orb of night— To which the sighs and orisons, flow'r-wreathed, Of lovers in all ages have been breathed,— Bathes all she sees in light. Her tracery is rich With images Mosaic, soft inlaid;— Forms, heav'n-traced, slumber 'twixt the light and shade, In every quiet niche. Moonlight is not like eld,— For it is young, and bright, and fresh and clear; But age the features sharpens, and brings near Resemblances withheld: So moonlight in its pride Outlines the landscape, and brings out to view Scenes of bright promise, and of fairy hue, By glen and mountain side! In moonlit mead or dell My soul endenizened, imbibes a tone Of nature-nurtured truth, which still is prone A plaintive tale to tell.

How beautiful the chaste And glorious moonlight glitters on the wave! Like diamond glancing upward from its cave, By rushing waters paced! The home-bound seaman hails Its ray auspicious, as it gayly flits Before him on his ocean-path, or sits Like silver on the sails! Profusely thrown in showers The dancing beam with every wave curl dips, Like sunlight sprinkled on the bearded lips Of humble meadow-flowers. On the lone beetling cliff, Where moonlight streams in all its glory bright, I see below the fishers, by its light, Haul beechward their rude skiff: And high above, the cot Which they call home, stands in the glad moonlight, Dear to their hearts and welcome to their sight, When they are far afloat. Here, as I linger, rapt, In the lone presence of the ocean free, Suspended like a bird above the sea, My bounding soul is apt To mingle, as its own, Among the waters, like a privileged thing; Or, as a seamew spreads its radiant wing, On the wild breezes thrown, To wander far away Above the breakers, and then strength inhale; Or float, like one inspired, upon the gale, And all its might survey. The grey sea, like grey time, Rolls onward till it traces its fixed bound, And then resumes its slow accustomed round, Fettered like measured rhyme! The hollow of God's hand Might hold it; and, though restless in its pride, It cannot outflow its appointed tide, Or overrun the land. When the rude tempest sings, And waves run high, and harsh the thunder's threats Assail the ear, the seaman ne'er forgets The promise moonlight brings: Amid the lashing foam, When its soft smile anoints the boiling wave; It tracks his pathway, prompts his soul to brave Whatever perils come. Homeward his vessel drifts, With beauty fair behind it and before; Hope leads it onward to the wished-for shore, And all the heart uplifts. Like mellow light of years, Long since evanished, on the memory, The moonlight falls upon the bounding sea, And the whole present cheers!

As young bird from its nest, At morn, floats upward—onward—and away; And when the night brings down its shadows grey. Returns unto its rest, Ev'n thus the youthful mind Goes forward to the world; partakes its cares And fleeting joys,—is tempted by its snares; But can no refuge find: The freshness of his home Goes with him, guidingly, where'er he wends; A star-like light upon his steps attends— A ray from Heaven's bright dome! In all his toil and fret, The quiet fields and gentle streams he knew, When youth clothed all around in fairest hue, His soul can ne'er forget: For still their memories come, Like poetry, to his spirit;—as a tone Of music's echo on the waters thrown, And heard 'mid evening's gloom. In brumal age, the dreams Of home refresh the soul, as purples pied Peep up from out the snows, and smile beside Winter's deserted streams; As violets on a rock They cheer the solitude,—their promise dawns Upon the mind, like moonlight o'er the lawns— Or joy to one grief-broke. Home of our youth, what spot On earth is like thee? Scenes of early days, Oh! where upon your equals can we gaze? What palace like the cot Where childhood first its eyes Oped to the day, and marvelled what could be The world around it? Is there aught we see Can be compared to skies Like those which earliest shone Upon our path, and like a sunray bright, Brought with it, freshly, dawnings of the light That ne'er can be forgone? Landscapes of other climes, Though bountiful in beauty, what are ye To the fair scenes of home, where'er it be? Sacred as churchward chimes. High may the mountains tower Into the heavens, and grandeur fill the scene, The valleys and the pastures may be green, The hill-sides still in flower, Of other lands, where stray The exile's feet; but none are e'er so fair Unto his soul, as the blest landscapes where His visions fly away. Those sordid cares beside, That cloud the mind, 'mong earth-born woes and ills. Come soothing thoughts of home, as 'tween far hills The gentle streamlets glide!