HENllY KIRKE WniTE*rf POEMS. 



And muse alone, till in the vault of night, 



Hesper, aspiring, sliow'd his golden light. 



Here once again remote from Imman noise, 



I sit me down to think of former joys ; 



Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, 



And once again each infant walk explore, 



While as each grove and lawn I recognise, 



My melted soul suifuses in my eyes. 



And oh ! thou Power, w^hose 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 ; 

 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 stored. 



In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls. 

 In many a fold, the mantling woodbine falls, 

 The village matron kept her little school, 

 Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; 

 Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 

 Her garb w^as coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean : 

 Her neatly -border'd cap, as lily fair. 

 Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care ; 

 And pendant ruffles, of the w^hitest lawn. 

 Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 

 Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, 

 A pair of spectacles their w^ant supplies ; 

 These does she guard secure, in leathern case. 

 From thoughtless wights, in some unAveeted place. 



Here first I entered, though with toil and pain, 

 The low vestibule of learning's fane : 

 Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, 

 Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. 

 Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn, 



