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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;
Whose dark eyes flashed thro' locks of blackest shade,
Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast;
But hark! thro' those old firs, with sullen swell,
On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel-door,