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All, all are fled; yet still I linger here !
Mark yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees,
See, thro' the fractured pediment revealed,
As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call !
Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear.
Ye Household Deities ! whose guardian eye
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wildered sight; And still, with Heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictured crest. The screen unfolds its many-coloured chart. The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near ; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feathered feet of Time? That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought; Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; Those once-loved 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 tinged the west, We watched the emmet to her grainy nest; Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring ! How oft inscribed, with Friendship’s votive rhyme, The bark now silvered by the touch of Time; Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, Thro' sister elms that waved their summer-shade;
Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, ,
Childhood's loved group revisits every scene;
The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses grey, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn: Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished here; And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions, and romantic dreams !
Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The Gipsy's fagot—there we stood and gazed; Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ;