318*

Aye, in lone glory, cherish'd-thee I hail! Not with the selfish, wordly mass, who move,

* In mincing measures, only with the gale

Of

prosperous fame: but when low sinks thy heart In dark and silent solitude, apart,

Deep mourning him who is not; in thy wail O then my spirit joins-my tears they flow,

And I do almost drink thy cup of woe!

E. W.

Stockton

upon Tees.

POEMS,

WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBLICATION OF

CLIFTON GROVE,

(1803)

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.

ᏢᎪᎡᎢ 1.

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,
The village church-yard, and the village-green,
The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade,
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade,
The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine grew,
And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew!

How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze,
To view the unclouded skies of former days!

Beloved age of innocence and smiles,

When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles.

VOL. I.

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When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true,
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.

Blest Childhood, hail !-Thee simply will I sing,
And from myself the artless picture bring;
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore,
Each humble friend, each pleasure, now no more,
And ev'ry stump familiar to my sight,

Recalls some fond idea of delight.

This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat;
Here did I love at evening to retreat,

And muse alone, till in the vault of night,

Hesper, aspiring, shew'd his golden light.
Here once again, remote from human noise,

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.

And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought;
Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye,
Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy;

Blest Memory, guide with finger nicely true,
Back to my youth my retrospective view;

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Recall with faithful vigour to my mind,
Each face familiar, each relation kind;

And all the finer traits of them afford,

Whose general outline in my heart is stor❜d.

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