In Fancy how dear are the scenes of my childhood
Which old recollections recal to my view!
My own little garden, its plants, and the wild wood,
The old paper Kite that my Infancy flew.
The cool shady Elm Grove, the Pond that was by it,
My small plaything Mill where the rain torrent fell;
My Father’s Pot Garden, the Drying Ground nigh it,
The old wooden Pump by the Melon ground well.
That Portugal Laurel I hail as a treasure,
For often in Summer when tired of play,
I found its thick shade a most exquisite pleasure,
And sat in its boughs my long lessons to say.
There I first thought my scholarship somewhat advancing,
And turning my Lilly right down on its back,
While my thirst for some drink the Sun’s beams were enhancing
I shouted out learnedly—Da mihi lac.
No image more dear than the thoughts of these baubles,
Ghigs, Peg Tops, and Whip Tops, and infantine games
The Grassplot for Ball, and the Yewwalk for Marbles,
And the arbours for whoop, and the vine trellis frames.
Those three renowned Poplars, by Summer winds waved
By Tom, Ben, and Ned, that were planted of yore,
’Twixt the times when these Wights were first breeched and first shaved
May now be hewn down, and may waver no more!
How well I remember, when Spring flowers were blowing,
With rapture I cropt the first Crocuses there!
Life seemed like a Lamp in eternity glowing,
Nor dreamt I that all the green boughs would be sear.
In Summer, while feasting on Currants and Cherries,
And roving through Strawberry Beds with delight,
I thought not of Autumn’s Grapes, Nuts, and Blackberries,
Nor of Ivy decked Winter cold shivering in white.
E’en in that frosty season, my Grandfather’s Hall in,
I used to sit turning the Electric Machine,
And taking from Shockbottles shocks much less galling,
If sharper than those of my manhood I ween.
The Chesnuts I picked up and flung in the fires,
The Evergreens gathered the hot coals to choke;
Made reports that were emblems of blown up desires,
And warm glowing hopes that have ended in smoke.