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THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green,
With magic tints to harmonize the scene.
Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke,
When round the ruins of their ancient oak
The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play,
And games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more
With treasured tales, and legendary lore.
All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.
All, all are fled; yet still I linger here!
What secret charms this silent spot endear?
Mark yon old mansion frowning through the
trees,

Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.
That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed.
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown
court,

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; When all things pleased, for life itself was new, And the heart promised what the fancy drew. See, through the fractured pediment revealed, Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield,

The martin's old, hereditary nest,

Long may the ruin spare its hallowed 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 stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly
hung,

Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweetened 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 chased the slipper by the sound;
And turned the blindfold hero round and round.
Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring;
And fancy fluttered on her wildest wing.

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As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.

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As through the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, We watched the emmet to her grainy nest; Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring!

How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive

rhyme,

The bark now silvered by the touch of Time ; Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, Through sister elms that waved their summershade;

Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

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The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses grey,

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 noon-tide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care.

Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished

here ;

And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions and romantic dreams!

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But hark! through those old firs, with sullen. swell,

The church-clock strikes ! ye tender scenes, farewell!

It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.

On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel door,

Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more,
Each eve we shot the marble through the ring,
When the heart danced, and life was in its
spring,

Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth.

The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed
Where now the sexton rests his hoary head.
Oft, as he turned the greensward with his spade,
He lectured every youth that round him played:
And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay,
Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.
Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here
alone

I search the records of each mouldering stone.
Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth !
Who first unveiled the hallowed form of Truth!
Whose every word enlightened and endeared;
In age beloved, in poverty revered;

In Friendship's silent register ye live,
Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give.

But when the sons of peace, of pleasure
sleep,

When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep,
What spells entrance my visionary mind

With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined?

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Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain;

Awake but one, and, lo! what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies.

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Mine be a cot beside a hill ;

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And, Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.

Rogers.

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