  Perhaps no spot upon this sphere, Has charms for me more sacred, dear, Than those of old Poundridge; I love her hills, her lakes, her streams, Her rural haunts, where Nature teems With joys naught can abridge. Her dew-bespangled meadows shine With gems of radiance so divine, When touched by matin sun, That myriad pendant drops of dew, Lend to the mead a brilliant hue Like earth with diamonds strown. The woods that sleep on distant hills, Or watch o'er gently murmuring rills, Seem restful to the soul; Their silence brings sweetest repose, A panacea for the woes That spurn M. D.'s control. The healthful, healing, peaceful rest, To frame fatigued, to mind distressed, Seems but a foretaste here, Of that serene and blest abode, Which to the faithful child of God Hereafter shall appear. I love the rustic's rough demesne, Which yields to toil a wealth unseen To those of civic life; For here I drank, in youth's bright dawn, The draughts of vigor which were drawn From labor's busy strife. I love the house wherein I played, The yard o'erspread by maple's shade, The nearby babbling brook; The fields o'er which my youthful feet Sped onward toward the trout's retreat, With dangling line and hook. I love the path across the wood Which once I trod in search of food For hungering, thirsting mind, The room where pupils used to meet And strive to make their work complete And manners more refined. All these I love for what is past, And still must love while life shall last; But I do love still more The souls who fired my mental lamp, And on my character did stamp Truths fraught with richest lore. I see my aged mother there, My father in his old arm-chair, And fancy hears their voice; My brother yet so full of joy, Has passed the limits of a boy, But still can much rejoice. Upon the hill, the lakes between, Are sacred mounds of living green, Where sleep my precious dead; A vacant spot reserved for me, To which my heart looks longingly, Invites my weary head. No greater boon could I e'er ask When I have finished earthly task, Than quietly to rest, Surrounded by her vales and hills, Her laughing lakes and singing rills, And friends that I love best. Tho' many years now intervene, My mind recalls each boyhood scene Of field and wood and bridge; These cherished memories only prove Abiding faith and filial love Toward restful, old Poundridge. |
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