Classic Poem

1

A LL outward forms immutable abide,
And in my heart a thousand memories spring:
The shepherd sings on yon green barrow's side,
As thirty summers past I heard him sing:
I hear, I hear the same lark answering:
I scent the old, remembered, warm perfume
Of the wild thyme: I tread the Fairy ring;
And welcome, each in their familiar room,
That far-off climbing flock, those shadows in the combe.

2

And calm within the bosom of the down,
As though no Time could waste, no Fortune fret
Her ancient peace, I see my own fair Town,
Girdled with golden sunbeams, changeless yet;
Her Tudor roofs; her spires Plantagenet;
Her Castle walls, where many a springing tree,
Elder and ash, their roots have strongly set:
Beneath, the River, o'er the level lea,
Through countless scattered herds winds softly to the sea.

3

Say, do I gaze upon a painted scene,
Or linger, still a child, on fairy ground,
While Fancy wafts from every deep ravine
Some sight of marvel, some romantic sound?
Here, many a morn, I've heard the distant hound;
Or watched the leveret scudding far away
With her lone shadow; or rejoicing found
Where in the turf-built trap, the shepherd's prey,
Noosed in the hairy springe, the captive wheat-ear lay.

4

Lo, at my side I see Another stand;
I hear a voice that breathes a tender tone;
I follow o'er the vale a pointing hand,
To mill, and spire, and yonder roof, our own.
Alas! The Image fades. I am alone.
Whatever Feeling wrought or Memory gave,
The Voice, the Hand, the Vision, all are gone; —
Viewless and trackless as yon river's wave,
That yesterday rolled down beneath my Father's grave!

5

Sweet Valley! once the scene of boyhood's mirth,
And still of dust beloved the sacred shrine,
If e'er, in other days, thy fostering earth
Mingled its ancient memories with mine,
So that in thee my spirit might divine
Some note of hidden harmony unsung; —
Breathe in me, Genius of the Place! refine
Imagination's sense, and teach my tongue
The music of the soil on which my childhood sprung!

6

By stream, and hill, and dale, beneath, around,
I see the reliques of the Ages spread;
Where peaceful lies rude Freedom's funeral mound
By turf-grown camps of conquering Empire dead;
Void fanes, by old Religion tenanted;
And fallen seats of Knighthood's high control.
Fair Spirit! o'er the scene thy influence shed,
And in each lifeless form, with living soul,
Reveal the Nation's course; its birth, its growth, its goal!