LINES ON REVISITING A NATIVE PLACE.
Light blows the wavy breeze, and o’er the plain
Pale twilight steals, in sober livery drest;
All nature sinks beneath the pleasing reign
Of silence---and in balmy slumbers rest.
Save where, with plaintive note, the bird of woe
Proclaims approaching fate, while, trembling, near,
Some mournful native wand’ring pensive, slow,
Starts at the voice he oft’ was taught to fear.[*]
Amid these wilds pale superstition reigns,
Her influence e’en the hardy Indian owns;
And ceaseless still prepares for man new pains,
And, fiend-like, too, delights to hear his groans.
’Tis past——the last faint ray of light is gone,
And darkness now pervades the ambient air;
Here let me wander, pensive and alone,
And sighing, think on fleeting joys that were.
That were—alas! that are no longer mine,
Ah! days of happiness how swift ye flew;
When erst I saw the sun of pleasure mine,
And not a cloud its full effulgence knew.
How sad remembrance thrills my aching heart,
As o’er these scenes so lov’d I fondly stray;
Methinks each object bids me quick depart
And ev’ry sighing gale thus seems to say:
“Retire, fond maid, nor here forever mourn,
Forget thy woes, forget thy useless grief;
Can ceaseless weeping cause the dead’s return,
Or sighs eternal give the heart relief.”
I go, adieu! ye much lov’d shades, adieu!
From your wild beauties far tho’ doom’d to stray,
Still faithful memory shall your charms renew,
And with the semblance cheer my lonely way.
CLARA.
Pearl-Street, August 23, 1796.
[*] There is a tradition among the Indians, that the cries of the whip-poor-will are ominous of coming evil.
