POEMS. CHILDHOOD: A POEM. This is one of Henry's earliest productions, and appears, by the handwriting, to have been written when he was between fourteen and fifteen. The picture of the school-mistress is from nature. PART I. PICTUR'D in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet Our infant days, our infant joys to greet; To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, Beloved age of innocence and smiles, When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles. VOL. I. 5 10 When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true, Blest Childhood, hail !-Thee simply will I sing, These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, 15 Each humble friend, each pleasure, now no more, Recalls some fond idea of delight. 20 This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat; And muse alone, till in the vault of night, Here once again, remote from human noise, 25 I sit me down to think of former joys; Pause on each scene, each treasur'd scene, once more, And once again each infant walk explore. While as each grove and lawn I recognize, My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. 30 And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, Blest Memory, guide with finger nicely true, 35 Whose general outline in my heart is stor❜d. 40 In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls, Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care; Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, 45 50 Here first I enter'd, tho' with toil and pain, The low vestibule of learning's fane; 55 Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd; 60 And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. 65 But soon enur'd to alphabetic toils, Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles; First at the form, my task for ever true, A little favourite rapidly I grew : And oft she strok'd my head with fond delight, 70 Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight; And as she gave my diligence its praise, Talk'd of the honours of my future days. Oh, had the venerable matron thought 75 Could she have seen me when revolving years Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, 80 Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life. Where in the busy scene, by peace unblest, Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest? A lonely mariner on the stormy main, Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore, When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more? |