Wrought inward, 'mid the faded imagery
Of early days.
⁠See, there, yon low-brow'd cot,
Whose threshold oft my childish foot has cross'd
So merrily,—whose hearth-stone shone so bright
At eve, where, with her skilful needle wrought
The industrious matron, while our younger group
Beguil'd with fruit, and nuts, and storied page,
The winter's stormy hour,—where are they now?—
Who coldly answers?—dead!
⁠Fast by its side,
A dearer mansion stands, where my young eyes
First opened on the light. That garden's bound,
Where erst I roam'd delighted, deeming earth,
With all its wealth, had nought so beautiful
AS its trim hedge of roses, and the ranks
Of daffodils, with snow-drops at their feet,
How small and chang'd it seems! The velvet turf
With its cool arbour, where I lingered long
Conning my little lesson, or, perchance,
Eyeing the slowly-ripening peach, that lean'd
Its downy cheek against the lattic'd wall,—
Or holding converse with the violet-buds,
That were to me as sisters,—giving back
Sweet thoughts,—say, is it not less green than when
My childhood wander'd there?
⁠Lo! by rude rocks
O'ercanopied,—the dome, where science taught