So sinks the scene, like a departed dream, 19
Since late we sojourned blythe in Wykeham's bowers,[20]
Or heard the merry bells by Isis' stream,
And thought our way was strewed with fairy flowers!
Of those with whom we played upon the lawn 20
Of early life, in the fresh morning played;
Alas! how many, since that vernal dawn,
Like thee, poor Russell, 'neath the turf are laid!
Joyous a while they wandered hand in hand, 21
By friendship led along the springtide plain;
How oft did Fancy wake her transports bland,
And on the lids the glistening tear detain!
I yet survive, now musing other song, 22
Than that which early pleased my vacant years;
Thinking how days and hours have passed along,
Marked by much pleasure some, and some by tears!
Thankful, that to these verdant scenes I owe 23
That he[21] whom late I saw all drooping pale,
Raised from the couch of sickness and of woe,
Now lives with me these mantling views to hail.
Thankful, that still the landscape beaming bright, 24
Of pendant mountain, or of woodland gray,
Can wake the wonted sense of pure delight,
And charm a while my solitary way.
Enough:—through the high heaven the proud sun rides, 25
My wandering steps their silent path pursue
Back to the crowded world where fortune guides:
Clifton, to thy white rocks and woods adieu!
[16] Afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.
[17] Bristol.
[18] From a latin prize poem, by W. Jackson—