TO THE THAMES, AT NORWICH, CONN.
———
BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
———
Hail, Father Thames! ’Tis joy to me
Once more thy face and haunts to see;
For lingering verdure, soft and rare,
Makes thine autumnal carpet fair;
And ’mid thy bordering heights is seen
The strong and patient evergreen,
While checkering sunbeams gild thy way,
And lightly with thy ripples play.
Spare not to give me smile of cheer,
And kindly bid me welcome here;
For some, who erst my hand would take,
And love me for affection’s sake,
Sleep the cold sleep that may not break;
And though to fill their vacant place
Are blooming brows and forms of grace,
Who still a favoring glance extend,
And greet their parent’s cherished friend,
Yet mingling with that welcome dear,
Are voices that they may not hear;
For visioned forms around me glide,
And tender memories throng my side,
Till tears, like pearl-drops, all apart,
Swell in the silence of the heart.
———
Methinks thou speak’st of change. ’Tis true;
What hand may hold the morning dew
All unexhaled through lengthened day,
To sparkle ’neath the westering ray?
Who dreams his flowing curls to keep,
While years roll on, in eddies deep?
The elastic feet, that sprung untired,
Where cliffs o’er towering cliffs aspired;
The heart, untaught a pang to bear,
The cheek that ne’er had paled with care,
The eye, undimmed by sorrow’s rain—
How could I bring these back again?
Change hath a part in every loan
And gift that youth doth call its own,
Nor grants old Earth a bond or claim,
Without the endorsement of his name;
So, that’s the tenure, father dear,
By which we hold possession here,
And be not strict to mark with shame,
Unless thyself wert free from blame,
For, in thy presence be it told,
That even thou art changed and old.
Methinks, with wild resentment’s flash,
I hear thy rising currents dash—
But still my charge I’ll deftly prove;
Where are the healthful flowers that wove
Fresh garlands here, in copse and grove?
The golden-rod, of sunny hue,
Heart’s-ease and violets deeply blue,
The lustrous laurel, richly drest,
That through the sober alders prest;
These blossomed when I saw thee last,
Yet now, dismantled branches cast
Keen challenge to the mocking blast,
And fallen leaves, in eddies dank,
Reproachful strew thy mottled bank.
Thy shrouded dells, where lovers stole,
Or poets mused with raptured soul—
Where are they now? I ask in vain;
Strange iron steeds that scorn the rein,
With shriek, and tramp, and nostrils bright,
The herds amid thy pastures fright;
And clashing wheel, and spindle’s force,
Oft drain thy faithful allies’ source,
Shetucket, with his roughened breast,
And Yantic, that I love the best;
While granite walls, and roofs of grace,
Usurp the moping owlet’s place.
Yes, thou art changed, the world hath made
High inroad on thy hermit shade.
But, say’st thou, that with spirit true
Thou keep’st a glorious goal in view;
Heaven speed thee on, with feet of glee,
And bless thy bridal with the sea;
Dear River! that doth lingering stay,
Laving the sandals, on thy way;
Of the fair city of my birth,
Perchance, the loveliest spot on earth.
Be thou our guide. Thy steadfast eye
Might teach us our own goal to spy;
For to that goal, through smile and tear,
Each winged moment brings us near;
Oh! may it be that blissful shore,
Where chance and change are known no more.