Benvenue
W ITH pensive joy once more I view
Thy lovely scenes, sweet Benvenue!
Whose grove-bound garden, shady dell,
Orchards, and hills with wooded swell,
Were to my childish eyes
An earthly Paradise.
Still girt with green the old stone Hall
Stands with its rough time-tinted wall;
The cedars still are nigh
Its wide and breezy porches: but of all
The poplars high
That, planted close about the grassy yard,
In stately file stood round the house on guard
Like grenadiers,
Not one appears!
Circled by emblematic thyme,
Whose fragrant tendrils round him climb,
I see the old stone Dial staud;
He, with his rusted iron hand,
Before the Locust Bower,
Still points the silent hour.
The brook I see, where when a boy
I caught the little fishes coy,
And, rapturous at the sight,
Made the wide forest ring with shouts of joy
And wild delight:
Their gold-brown backs and sides of silver fine,
Their crystal fins and jewelled eyes, were mine!
They all are gone:
Yet the brook flows on.
The doves that, with their downy throats,
Their whistling wings and cooing notes,
I loved so much, are not; but still
I hear, from underneath the hill,
Far down the grassy dell,
The tinkling wether-bell,
The Sabbath stillness, as of old,
Descends serene o'er wood and wold,
And, through the peaceful calm,
Forth from the humble village church is rolled
The full-toned psalm.
Yet sadness strange through each remembrance runs:
In hall, and bower, and church, the aged ones
I loved of yore
I see no more!
Where is my old Grandame? Not here
I see her bended form appear,
Or by the little table knit,
With snow-white cap, or sewing sit
Before the cheerful fire.
And where my gray Grandsire?
Who took me oft upon his knees,
Showed me the wondrous cells of bees,
With honey oozing o'er;
Or pruned, with active care, the bearing trees,
Or gleaned their store.
His prayer awoke the morn with early zeal,
And asked a blessing on each frugal meal.
That voice mine ear
No more shall hear!
Down in the opening vale is seen,
With mingling tints of white and green,
The grave-yard, in whose bosom cold
Lies, full of years, that Grandsire old.
The grass upon his breast,—
Unbroken is his rest!
Alas! far from this quiet shade
The partner of his life is laid,
And in a colder land:
But their fond souls, though some few years delayed,
Together stand;
Have found each other in Our F ATHER'S Home,
And, arm in arm, by living fountains roam,
On the heavenward side
Of Death's cold tide.
Nor are the loved ones all gone yet;
Nay, Cousins, think ye I forget?
How oft, when thought the scene recalls,
I see, in those embowered halls,
Dear living faces shine
With loving eyes on mine!
Farewell, once more, sweet Benvenue!
Thou hast re-touched with sober hue,
Ev'n dashed with some sad tears,
The rosy picture warm Remembrance drew
From Life's young years.
Yet, while I stood beholding thee again,
New love-wrought links still lengthened out the chain
That binds me fast
To the golden past.
Thy lovely scenes, sweet Benvenue!
Whose grove-bound garden, shady dell,
Orchards, and hills with wooded swell,
Were to my childish eyes
An earthly Paradise.
Still girt with green the old stone Hall
Stands with its rough time-tinted wall;
The cedars still are nigh
Its wide and breezy porches: but of all
The poplars high
That, planted close about the grassy yard,
In stately file stood round the house on guard
Like grenadiers,
Not one appears!
Circled by emblematic thyme,
Whose fragrant tendrils round him climb,
I see the old stone Dial staud;
He, with his rusted iron hand,
Before the Locust Bower,
Still points the silent hour.
The brook I see, where when a boy
I caught the little fishes coy,
And, rapturous at the sight,
Made the wide forest ring with shouts of joy
And wild delight:
Their gold-brown backs and sides of silver fine,
Their crystal fins and jewelled eyes, were mine!
They all are gone:
Yet the brook flows on.
The doves that, with their downy throats,
Their whistling wings and cooing notes,
I loved so much, are not; but still
I hear, from underneath the hill,
Far down the grassy dell,
The tinkling wether-bell,
The Sabbath stillness, as of old,
Descends serene o'er wood and wold,
And, through the peaceful calm,
Forth from the humble village church is rolled
The full-toned psalm.
Yet sadness strange through each remembrance runs:
In hall, and bower, and church, the aged ones
I loved of yore
I see no more!
Where is my old Grandame? Not here
I see her bended form appear,
Or by the little table knit,
With snow-white cap, or sewing sit
Before the cheerful fire.
And where my gray Grandsire?
Who took me oft upon his knees,
Showed me the wondrous cells of bees,
With honey oozing o'er;
Or pruned, with active care, the bearing trees,
Or gleaned their store.
His prayer awoke the morn with early zeal,
And asked a blessing on each frugal meal.
That voice mine ear
No more shall hear!
Down in the opening vale is seen,
With mingling tints of white and green,
The grave-yard, in whose bosom cold
Lies, full of years, that Grandsire old.
The grass upon his breast,—
Unbroken is his rest!
Alas! far from this quiet shade
The partner of his life is laid,
And in a colder land:
But their fond souls, though some few years delayed,
Together stand;
Have found each other in Our F ATHER'S Home,
And, arm in arm, by living fountains roam,
On the heavenward side
Of Death's cold tide.
Nor are the loved ones all gone yet;
Nay, Cousins, think ye I forget?
How oft, when thought the scene recalls,
I see, in those embowered halls,
Dear living faces shine
With loving eyes on mine!
Farewell, once more, sweet Benvenue!
Thou hast re-touched with sober hue,
Ev'n dashed with some sad tears,
The rosy picture warm Remembrance drew
From Life's young years.
Yet, while I stood beholding thee again,
New love-wrought links still lengthened out the chain
That binds me fast
To the golden past.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.