Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, Or view'd the forest-feats of Robin Hood: Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scal'd the lonely tower; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. Ye Household Deities! whose guardian eye Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight; And still with Heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictur'd crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart. Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time? That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the caged linnet sooth'd my pensive thought; Those muskets cas'd with venerable rust; Those once-lov'd forms, still breathing thro' their dust, Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast, Starting to life-all whisper of the past! As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple evening ting'd the west, We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest; How oft inscrib'd, with Friendship's votive rhyme, Childhood's lov'd group revisits every scene, The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! Indulgent MEMORY wakes, and, lo! they live! Cloth'd with far softer hues than Light can give. Thou last, best friend that Heav'n assigns below, To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Thee would the Muse invoke!-to thee belong The sage's precept, and the poet's song. What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind. The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Unheard the shout that rent the nocntide air, Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship form'd, and cherish'd here! Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blaz'd The Gipsy's faggot-there we stood and gaz'd; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; Whose dark eyes flash'd thro' locks of blackest shade, When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd: And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call, Whose elfin prowess scal'd the orchard-wall. |