  .................... "On life's wide plain Cast friendless, where unheard some sufferer cries Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long, Twere not a crime, should we awhile delay Amid the sunny field; and happier they, Who, as they wander, woo the charm of song To cheer their path, 'till they forget to weep, And the tired sense is husht and sinks to sleep." BOWLES. Allow me, Memory, in thy treasur'd store, To view those days that will return no more: Oh! let thy vivid pencil call to view Each distant scene, each long-past hour anew, Ere yet my bosom knew the touch of grief, Ere yet my bosom lov'd the lyre's relief. Yes, as thou dart'st thine intellectual ray, The clouds of mental darkness melt away: So when, at earliest day's awaking dawn, The hovering mists obscure the dewy lawn, O'er all the champain spread their influence chill, Hang o'er the vale, and hide the lofty hill; Anon, slow rising, beams the orb of day, Slow melt the shadowy mists, and fade away; And hang in dew-drops on the glistening thorn; The prospect opens on the pilgrim's sight, And hills, and vales, and woods, reflect the beam of light. O thou! the mistress of my future days, Accept thy minstrel's retrospective lays; To whom the minstrel and the lyre belong, Accept, Ariste, Memory's pensive song! For Memory on thine image loves to hang, Heave the sad sigh, and point the piercing pang. Of long-past days I sing, ere yet I knew Or grief and care, or happiness and you; Ere yet my infant bosom learnt to prove The pangs of absence, and the hopes of love. So when the pilgrim, on his journey bent, With upward toil creeps on the steep ascent; Ere yet his feet the destin'd height attain, Oft will he pause, and gaze the journey'd plain; Oft pause again, the valley to survey, Where food or slumber sooth'd his wand'ring way. Alston! twelve years, in various business fled, Have wing'd their restless flight o'er Bion's head; Twelve years have taught his opening mind to know The smiles of pleasure, and the frowns of woe; He roam'd an inmate of the village school: Yet still will memory's busy eye retrace Each well-known vestige of the oft-trod place; Each wonted haunt, each scene of youthful joy, Where merriment has cheer'd the careless boy: Well pleas'd will memory still the spot survey, Where once he triumph'd in the infant play, Without one care where every morn he rose, Where every evening sunk to calm repose. Large was the mansion, fall'n by varying fate From lordly grandeur and manorial state; Where once the manor's lord supreme had rule, Now reign'd the master of the village school: No more was heard around, at earliest morn, The echoing clangor of the huntsman's horn; No more the eager hounds, with deep'ning cry, Yell'd in the exulting hope of pastime nigh; The squire no more obey'd the morning call, Nor favourite spaniels fill'd the sportsman's hall; For he, the last descendant of his race, Slept with his fathers, and forgot the chace. Fall'n was the mansion: o'er the village poor The lordly landlord tyrannized no more; The mighty master held despotic rule: With trembling silence all his deeds we saw, His look a mandate, and his word a law; Severe his voice, severely grave his mien, And wond'rous strict he was, and wond'rous wise, I ween. Even now, thro' many a long long year, I trace The hour when first in awe I view'd his face; Even now recall my entrance at the dome, 'Twas the first day I ever left my home! Years intervening have not worn away The deep remembrance of that distant day; Effac'd the vestige of my earliest fears, A mother's fondness, and a mother's tears; When close she prest me to her sorrowing heart, As loath as even I myself to part. But time to youthful sorrow yields relief, Each various object weans the child from grief: Like April showers the tears of youth descend, Sudden they fall, and suddenly they end; Serener pleasure gilds the following hour, As brighter gleams the sun when past the April shower. Methinks ev'n now the interview I see, Recall the mistress' smile, the master's glee: Much of my future happiness they said, Much of the easy life the scholars led; Of spacious play-ground, and of wholsome air, The best instruction, and the tenderest care; And when I follow'd from the garden door My father, 'till with tears I saw no more, How civilly they eas'd my parting pain, And never spake so civilly again! Why loves the soul on earlier years to dwell, When memory spreads around her saddening spell; When discontent, with sullen gloom o'ercast, Loaths at the present, and prefers the past? Why calls reflection to my pensive view Each trifling act of infancy anew— Each trifling act with pleasure pondering o'er, Even at the time when trifles please no more! Day follows day, yet leaves no trace behind, When one sole thought engrosses all the mind; When anxious reason claims her painful sway, And for to-morrow's prospect glooms to-day! Ill fares the wanderer in this vale of life, When each new stage affords succeeding strife; In every stage he feels supremely curst, Yet still the present evil seems the worst: And, grasping still at bliss, unblest at last he dies. Yet is remembrance sweet; though well I know The days of childhood are but days of woe; Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours The tranquil calm of childhood's easy hours; Some trifling fault committed calls the tear, Some trifling task neglected prompts to fear: Yet is it sweet to call to mind the hour, Ere searching reason gain'd her saddening power; Ere future prospects could the soul distress, When even ignorance was happiness. Such was my state in those remember'd years, When one small acre bounded all my fears: And even now with pleasure I recall The tapestry'd school, the bright-brown boarded hall; The murmuring brook, that every morning saw The due observance of the cleanly law; The walnuts, where, when favour would allow, Full oft I wont to search each well-stript bough; The crab-tree, whence we hid the secret hoard, With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board. These trifling pastimes then my soul possest, These trifling objects still remain imprest: Carves the rude legend on the growing rind, In after years the peasant lives to see The expanded legend grow as grows the tree. Though every winter's desolating sway Shake the hoarse grove, and sweep the leaves away; Deep in its trunk the legend still will last, Defy the storm, and brave the wintry blast. Whilst letter'd travellers delight to roam The time-torn temple and demolish'd dome; Stray with the Arab o'er the wreck of time, Where erst Palmyra's towers arose sublime; Or mark the lazy Turk's lethargic pride, And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side: Oh! be it mine to flee from empire's strife, And mark the changes of domestic life; See the fall'n scenes where once I bore my part, Where every change of fortune strikes the heart; As when the merry bells' responsive sound Proclaim the news of victory around; When eager patriots fly the news to spread Of glorious conquest, and of thousands dead; All feel the mighty glow of victor joy, Exult in blood, and triumph to destroy: But if extended on the gory plain, And, snatch'd in conquest, some lov'd friend be slain, And suffering nature grieve that one should die. Oft have my footsteps roam'd the sacred spot, Where heroes, kings, and minstrels, sleep forgot; Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivy'd wall, Or ruin'd convent tottering to its fall; Whilst sad reflection lov'd the solemn gloom, Paus'd o'er the pile, and ponder'd on the tomb: Yet never had my bosom felt such pain As, Alston, when I saw thy scenes again! For every long-lost pleasure rush'd to view, For every long-past sorrow rose anew; Where whilome all were friends, I stood alone, Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown. Alston! no pilgrim ever crept around With more emotion Sion's sacred ground, Than fill'd my heart as slow I saunter'd o'er Those fields my infant steps had trod of yore; Where I had loiter'd out the summer hour, Chas'd the gay butterfly, and cull'd the flower; Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace, Or with mine equals vied amid the chace. Cold was the morn, and bleak the wintry blast Howl'd o'er the meadow, when I view'd thee last; Each well-known field, each long-remember'd ground. I saw the church where I had slept away The tedious service of the summer-day; Or, listening sad to all the preacher told, In winter wak'd, and shiver'd with the cold; And, as I pass'd along the well-trod way, Where whilome two by two we walk'd to pray, I saw the garden ground as usual rail'd, A fence, to fetch my ball, I oft had scal'd: Oh! it recall'd a thousand scenes to view, A thousand joys to which I long had bid adieu. Silent and sad the scene: I heard no more Mirth's honest cry, and childhood's cheerful roar, No longer echo'd round the shout of glee— It seem'd as tho' the world were chang'd, like me! There, where my little hands were wont to rear With pride the earliest sallad of the year; Where never idle weed to grow was seen, There the rank nettle rear'd its head obscene. I too have felt the hand of fate severe— In those calm days I never knew to fear; No future views alarm'd my gloomy breast, No anxious pangs my sickening soul possest; Increase of reason was increase of woe. Silent and sad awhile I paus'd, to gaze On the fall'n dwelling of my earlier days; Long dwelt the eye on each remember'd spot, Each long-left scene, long left, but not forgot: Once more my soul delighted to survey The brook that murmured on its wonted way; Obedient to the master's dread commands, Where every morn we wash'd our face and hands; Where, when the tempest raged along the air, I wont to rear the dam with eager care; And eft and aye return'd with joy to find The neighbouring orchard's fruit shook down by warring wind. How art thou chang'd! at first the stately pile, Where pride, and pomp, and pleasure, wont to smile, Lord of the manor, where the jovial squire Call'd all his tenants round the crackling fire; Where, whilst the glow of fame o'erspread his face, He told his ancient exploits in the chace; And, proud his rival sportsmen to surpass, He lit again the pipe, and fill'd again the glass. Past is thy day of glory: past the day When here the man of learning held his sway: No more, when howl the wintry storms around, Within thy hall is heard the mirthful sound; No more disport around the infant crew, And high in health the mimic game pursue; No more to strike the well-aim'd ball delight, Or rear aloft with joy the buoyant kite. True, thou art fallen: thy day of glory past, Long may thy day of honest comfort last! Long may the farmer from his toil retire To joys domestic round thy evening fire; Where boisterous riot once supreme has reign'd, Where discipline his sway severe maintain'd; May heaven the industrious farmer's labour bless, And crown his honest toil with happiness. Seat of my earlier, happier years, farewell! Thy memory still in Bion's breast shall dwell: Still as he journeys life's rough road along, Or sojourns sad, this college gloom among, Will fond remembrance paint those careless days, When all he wish'd was speedy holydays! Alston, how many a pang has wrung my heart, Since from thy scenes in youth I joy'd to part! The sigh of sorrow, and the weight of woe I knew not even the comfort of a tear O'er a beloved father's timeless bier; His clay-cold limbs I saw the grave inclose, And blest that fate which snatch'd him from his woes. Why wilt thou, Memory, still recall to view Each long-past joy, each long-lost friend anew? Paint not the scenes that pleas'd my soul of yore, Those friends are gone, those long-past joys no more; Cease to torment me, busy torturer, cease, Let cold oblivion's touch benumb my soul to peace! So when the morning smiles serene and mild, The cheerful pilgrim wanders o'er the wild; Soft through the bowering wood the breezes blow, And bubbling fountains sparkle as they flow; Sweet is to him the woodland's secret glade, Sweet the deep shelter of the dingle's shade: And oft he stops, delighted to survey The high hill's top reflect the lucid ray; Anon the face of heaven is overcast, Hoarse groan the woods responsive to the blast; The wild winds howl, the torrents thunder down, With darker hues the sullen mountains frown; O'ercast by horror now, englooms his shrinking breast. Yet, as the mariner, when tempest tost, Aghast he stands, and gives up all for lost; If at that moment, when with faultering breath He calls to heaven, and waits the rushing death; If then he sees the twin-born lights descend, His bosom brightens, and his terrors end. Ariste! so when memory's painful sway Recalls the sorrow of the distant day; When the soft soother turns at length to thee, The gloom disperses, and the shadows flee; Grief's cankering pangs no more my bosom move, That beating bosom only bounds to Love. BION. Vignette
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