THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. 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! Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound; As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, * * * 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! * 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! * 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, Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed I search the records of each mouldering stone. In Friendship's silent register ye live, But when the sons of peace, of pleasure When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined? 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! Mine be a cot beside a hill ; A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, 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. |