The quiet fields and gentle streams he knew,
When youth clothed all around in fairest hue,
His soul can ne'er forget:
For still their memories come,
Like poetry, to his spirit;—as a tone
Of music's echo on the waters thrown,
And heard 'mid evening's gloom.
In brumal age, the dreams
Of home refresh the soul, as purples pied
Peep up from out the snows, and smile beside