SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay, And frequent mused the twilight hours away; Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine: How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to recall the past, And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 'Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!' When fate shall chill at length this fever'd breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought, 't would soothe my dying hour, -- If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, -- To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell. With this fond dream, methinks, 't were sweet to die -- And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie; Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth and couch of my repose; For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd; Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; Deplored by those in early days allied, And unremember'd by the world beside | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MARRIAGE by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY by FRANCIS BEAUMONT IN THIS DARK HOUSE by EDWARD DAVISON THE VOICE OF THE CHRIST-CHILD by PHILLIPS BROOKS TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. THE STONE-CUTTER by EDWARD CARPENTER |