The visions of my youth are past— A few brief years shall pass away, And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold My ashes in the embracing mould, (If haply the dark will of fate Indulge my life so long a date) May come for the last time to look Upon my childhood's favourite brook, Then dimly on my eye shall gleam The sparkle of thy dancing stream, And faintly on my ear shall fall Thy prattling current's merry call; Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright As when thou metst my infant sight. As And I shall sleep-and on thy side, ages after ages glide, Children their early sports shall try, And pass to hoary age and die. But thou, unchanged from year to year, Shalt mock the fading race of men. A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. COME, take our boy, and we will go The winds shall bring us, as they blow, And we will kiss his young blue eyes, I'll sing, in his delighted ear, And thou, while stammering I repeat, Thy country's tongue shalt teach; Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine, With many a speaking look and sign. I knew thy meaning-thou didst praise My eyes, my locks of jet; Ah! well for me they won thy gaze,— But thine were fairer yet! I'm glad to see my infant wear Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair, And when my sight is met By his white brow and blooming cheek, I feel a joy I cannot speak. Come, talk of Europe's maids with me, Whose necks and cheeks, they tell, Outshine the beauty of the sea, White foam and crimson shell. I'll shape like theirs my simple dress, A sight to please thee well; Come, for the soft, low sunlight callsWe lose the pleasant hours; 'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls— That seat among the flowers. And I will learn of thee a prayer To Him who gave a home so fair, A lot so blest as ours The God who made for thee and me This sweet lone isle amid the sea. THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. THY bower is finished, fairest ! Fit bower for hunter's brideWhere old woods overshadow The green savannah's side. I've wandered long and wandered far, And never have I met, In all this lovely western land, A spot so lovely yet. But I shall think it fairer When thou art come to bless, With thy sweet eyes and silver voice, Its silent loveliness. For thee the wild grape glistens On sunny knoll and tree, And stoops the slim papaya With yellow fruit for thee. For thee the duck, on glassy stream, The prairie-fowl shall die, My rifle for thy feast shall bring The wild swan from the sky. The forest's leaping panther, I know, for thou hast told me, Bloom to the April skies, The earth has no more gorgeous sight To shew to human eyes. In meadows red with blossoms, All summer long, the bee Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, Or, wouldst thou gaze at tokens Our old oaks stream with mosses, And mighty vines, like serpents, climb The giant sycamore; And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries Cumber the forest floor; And in the great savannah The solitary mound, Built by the elder world, o'erlooks The loneliness around Come, thou hast not forgotten Thy pledge and promise quite, With many blushes murmured, |