Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE INFLUENCE OF LOCAL ATTACHMENT, SELECTION, by RICHARD POLWHELE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE INFLUENCE OF LOCAL ATTACHMENT, SELECTION, by                    
First Line: Each object by a few short years how changed!
Last Line: Wear, like the joys they speak of, the pale cold damp of years!
Subject(s): Memory; Travel; Journeys; Trips


EACH object by a few short years how changed!
The hall, where once we hailed the cheerful blaze;
The chairs in social order once arranged;
Those mouldering panels where we used to gaze
On the light shadework that in many a maze
Danced to the foliage of yon falling elm,
While evening tinged its boughs with saffron rays;
Those portraits, where the golden-pictured helm,
The hauberk's mimic steel, dark webs and dust o'erwhelm.

And, as the parlour-hinges, harshly grate,
The torn prints flutter but the type of me,—
Where once so warm each crimson-gleaming seat,
And once so rich appeared the soft settee;
Where, the flowered carpet as I trod with glee,
The mirror would reflect my frolic smile,
Where from yon screen, once wrought in filigree
By some old aunt with ill-requited toil,
I oft the spangles picked and looked askance the while.

There too, above the round-arched portal, hung
The branching antlers of a forest-deer,
For whom with hounds and horn the deep dales rung.
But, as enamoured of the wild-wood cheer,
Full many a moon o'er valleys far and near
He ran, and seemed to scorn the murderous crew;
Till, where the tops of yon oaks scarce appear,
The gunner bade his blood the copse imbrue—
Yet e'en that relic pale is vanished from the view!

Drear is the sun-clad wall, where erst at noon
I basked beneath the yet unblushing fruit,
Oft as the gardener's skill was wont to prune
From the rich nectarine each luxuriant shoot,
Or net to every trained morella suit.
And lo! where light its twinkling florets played,
The dark-green jasmine shrivelled to its root!
And the grass-walk, where sighs the poplar-shade,
Sinks deep at every step with leaves and moss o'erlaid.

And see, beyond the garden's northern bound,
The ruined cottage to the blasts of heav'n
Unroofed, and crumbled to a naked mound!
There, ere its walls by cruel time were riv'n,
The rays of sweet domestic peace were giv'n
To bless the cot! The wicket, where it hung,
Yet to and fro I view, in fancy, driv'n;
And swinging careless there, as erst I swung,
Again the good old hind attack with flippant tongue.
Alas! the chestnut on yon slaty steep
Which the wild eddies of the west wind braved,
Displays no more its vesture shadowy-deep,
Nor, late dismantled as the tempest raved,
Waves the fair blossoms which it whilom waved!
And lo! its withered roots no longer gleam
Through the clear riv'let that its fibres laved—
There where the pigeon-cote, that met the beam
Of morn, now prostrate lies amid the brawling stream.

Lorn is the landscape since the blissful prime,
When on the daisy-darting sod I played,
Caught the quick radiance quiv'ring through the lime,
Breathed the fresh odours of its evening shade,
And on its bark the rude impression made—
E'en now, half-crusted o'er, the name appears!
And, where my school-companions crossed the glade,
Lo! other sweet memorials, wakening tears,
Wear, like the joys they speak of, the pale cold damp of years!





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