IN scenes untrod for many a year, I stand again, the long estranged; And gazing round me, ponder here On all that has, and has not changed. The casual visitor would see Nought altered in the aspects round; But long familiar shapes to me Are missing, which I fain had found. Still stands the rock, still runs the flood, Which not an eye could pass unmoved; The flow'ry bank, the fringing wood, Which e'en the passer mark'd and lov'd. But when mine eye's delighted pride, Had dwelt the rock's high front upon, I sought upon its warmer side, A vine we train'd -- and that was gone. And though awhile content I gazed, Upon the river quick and fair, I sought, ere long, a seat we raised In childhood -- but it was not there. Stones lay around, I know not whether Its relics, or the winter's snow -- And sitting where we sate together, Again I watch'd the torrent flow. So whirl'd the waves that form'd it then, In foam around yon jutting stone; So arrowy shot they down the glen, When here we pass'd the time that's gone. There in the waters dipp'd the tree From which, the day I parted hence, I took a few green leaves, to be My solace still through time and chance. Full many a spring the tree has shone In sunlight, air, and beauty here; While I in cities gazed upon The wither'd leaves of that one year. That year was fraught with heavy things, With deaths and partings, loss and pain; And every object round me rings Its mournful epitaph again. But most, those small familiar traits, Which only we have lov'd or known; They flourish'd with our happier days -- They wither'd because we were gone. Their absence seems to speak of those Who're scatter'd far upon the earth; At whose young hands they once arose, Whose eyes gazed gleeful on their birth. Those hands since then have grasp'd the brand, Those eyes in grief grown dim and hot; And wand'ring through a stranger's land, Oft yearn'd to this remember'd spot. How changed are they! -- how changed am I! -- The early spring of life is gone; Gone is each youthful vanity, -- But what with years, oh what is won? I know not -- but while standing now, Where open'd first the heart of youth, I recollect how high would glow Its thoughts of Glory, Faith, and Truth -- How full it was of good and great, How true to heav'n, how warm to men, Alas! I scarce forbear to hate The colder breast I bring again. Hopes disappointed, sin, and time Have moulded me, since here I stood; Ah! paint old feelings, rock sublime! Speak life's fresh accents, mountain flood! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PAST AND PRESENT by ROWLAND EYLES EGERTON-WARBURTON TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST by ALISON RUTHERFORD SONNET: 97 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ASPIRATIONS: 11 by MATHILDE BLIND THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: GOING BACK AGAIN by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON WINDSOR, VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY |