The martin's old, hereditary nest.

Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest!

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall!

That hall, where once, in antiquated state,

The chair of justice held the grave debate.

Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,

Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;

When round yon ample board, in due degree,

We sweeten'd every meal with social glee.

The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest;
And all was sunshine in each little breast.

'Twas here we chas'd the slipper by its sound;

And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. 'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring;

And Fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing.

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.
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 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.
The clock still points its moral to the heart.
That faithful monitor 'twas heav'n to hear!
When soft it spoke a promis'd pleasure near:
And has its sober hand, its simple chime,

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;

Welcom'd the wild-bee home on wearied wing,
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring!
How oft inscrib'd, with Friendship's votive rhyme,
The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time;
Soar'd in the swing, half pleas'd and half afraid,
Thro' sister elms that way'd their summer-shade;
Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

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,

Long on the wave reflected lustres play;

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,

Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn:

Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,

When the slow dial gave a pause to care.