We met as strangers, Lady, tho' the scenes
On which thine eyes first opened, were the same
To which the sports of childhood, and the hopes
Of Manhood's flattering dawn, had bound my heart
With cords of filial love indissoluble.
We part as strangers, tho' the self-same roof
So long has sheltered both. I hear thy voice—
I hear thy fairy step—and trace the print
Of the soft kiss, with which thy lip has prest
My infant's cheek; and see her little hands
Rich with the gifts thy kindness has bestowed.
And this is all: but there is more than this
That with a link of sympathy connects
My heart with thee, as if some common lot,
Some common spell of destiny had bound
Our fates in one. And we have much in common.
The hope that guides thy steps to distant lands,
In quest of pleasures, such as boundless wealth,
And friends, and youth, and peerless beauty promise—
How much unlike the stern necessity,
Which drove me forth to roam thro' desarts wild,
And on the confines of society,
Where the fierce savage whets the vengeful knife
'Gainst cultivated brutes more fierce than he,
Through hardship, toil and strife, to win my bread!
But O! to leave the scenes of happy youth—
The Father's sheltering roof, the Mother's care,
The blithe play-fellows of our childish sports,
The gay companions of our gladsome hours,
The cherished friend, whose sympathy consoled
The petty griefs, that, like a fleecy cloud,
But dimmed the sunshine of our spring of life,
And, having shed its freshness on the heart,
Melted away, leaving the scene more fair;—
To lose all these!—what is it but the type
Of that last fatal wrench, that tears the heart
At once from all we love; and in one doom,
One common bond of sympathy, unites
The unnumbered victims, who in every rank,
Through every walk, throng to the gates of Death?
May we not deem that the fond Mother's heart,
Though couched in bliss celestial, yet will yearn
To her deserted Child? And will not thine,
Where'er thy steps may roam, true to the pole
Of all thy young affections, point thy thoughts
To the fair scenes, clothed by thy fairy hand
With every charm of hue, and scent, and shade,
Thyself the brightest ornament? O yes!
From the rich isle, where science, art and wealth
Have crowded every joy, the ravished sense,
And heart, and mind can covet; from the plains
Of France the beauteous; from the vine-crowned hills
That in the glassy bosom of the Rhine
Their blushing fruitages reflected see;
From classic Italy, the "marble waste"
Of desecrated fane, and ruined tower,
And silent palaces, where once the doom
Of empires was decreed, the heart will turn
To Home. The trackless wild, where foot of man
Has never broke the silence with its tread,
Is not more lonely than the thronging scene,
The "peopled solitude," where jostling crowds
Elbow their way, regardless that we look
Upon their strife—unconscious that we live.
The moss-grown rock, that in the savage dell
Has frowned for ages on the silent scene,
In its drear loneliness reflects our own,
And seems to give a kind of sympathy;
But stony hearts have none.
Known! yet unknown!
There is a strange mysterious interest
Follows the form, that flitting through the gloom
Of twilight, half concealed, and half disclosed,
Glides silently away; and such a spell
Upon my memory, thy shadowy image
In traces faint but indestructible
Has sketched. And I would be remembered too,
Not as I am, for thou hast never known me,
But as I fain would have thee fancy me.
And I shall be remembered—for the scenes
On which thy memory will love to dwell,
Are now my care. 'Tis mine to dress the vine
Which trained by thee its graceful foliage,
Gratefully spread to shelter thee: The flower
That mourns thy absence, watered by my hand,
Shall lift its drooping head and smile; and thou
In fancy shalt behold its blue eye glistening
Brighter through tears; and, with an answering smile,
And answering tear, thine own bright eye will bless me.
Then mayst thou think how I, my wanderings o'er,
Have found my way back to my native bowers,
Among the few whom Time and Fate have left
Of early friends, to render up my breath,
And lay my bones beneath the turf, where once
My musing childhood strayed. And thou wilt think,
That fortune yet may have in store for thee,
Like destiny. For who so well may claim
To rest beneath the shade, to pluck the rose,
Or, on the mossy bank reclined, inhale
The violet's balmy breath? And trust me, Lady,
Should clouds o'ercast the sunny sky that shines
So bright above thee; should a stormy fate,
Whelming thy hopes, cast thee a shipwrecked wanderer,
Wounded and bleeding, on thy native shore,
These are the scenes in which thy heart will seek
And find its consolation. Where besides
Is Sympathy so tender—Love so kind—
Religion so sincere? Where else has Hope
So learned to look, with cheerful confidence,
On worlds beyond the grave? Where else does Faith
So show its Love to God by Love to Man? |