Classic Poem

BY HARVEY D. LITTLE .

I come once more, a wearied man,
To look upon that holy spot,
Where first my infant life began
To journey through its changeful lot.
I come! — A thousand shadows play
Upon the mirror of my mind —
The phantoms of a happier day
In memory's sacred keeping shrined.

I gaze! and lo! before me rise
The shades of many a hallowed form:
They pass before my wilder'd eyes,
With looks as blooming, young, and warm,
As twice ten years ago they seem'd,
When last in sportive hour we met:
But ah! we then had never dream'd
That youth's bright sun so soon would set.

Where are they now? — I find them not
Where erst their glorious forms were found!
Each favorite haunt, each well known spot,
Echoes no more the cheerful sound
Of their glad voices. — They are gone,
O'er hills, and streams, and valleys wide;
Scatter'd like leaves by autumn strown,
Even in their freshest bloom and pride.

The placid brook still winds its way
Through sloping banks bedeck'd with flowers:
The zephyrs through the leaflets play,
The same as in life's early hours.
But time and change have strangely cast
O'er every spot a Ionesome air:
My thoughts are treasur'd with the past —
My happiest moments centre there.

I feel that e'en my childhood's home
Hath lost its once mysterious charm!
No voice parental bids me come —
None greets me with affection warm!
But yet, amid my being's blight,
One cherish'd thought with fondness glows —
That where mine eyes first hailed the light,
There they at last , shall darkly close.