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I STAND where I have stood before in boyhood's sunny

prime, The same yet not the same, but one who wears the

touch of Time; And

gaze around on what was then familiar to the eye, But whose inconstant features tell that years have jour

neyed by,

Since o'er this venerable ground a truant child I played, And chased the bee and plucked the flower, where an.

cient dust is laid : And hearkened, in my wondering mood, when tolled the

passing bell, And started at the coffin's cry, as clods upon it fell.

These mossy tombs I recollect, the same o'er which I pored, The same these rhymes and texts, with which my memory

was stored; These humble tokens, too, that lean, and tell where rest

ing bones Are hidden, though their date and name have perished How rich these precincts with the spoils of ages buried

from the stones.


here! What hearts have ached, what eyes have given this con

scious earth the tearHow many friends, whose welcome cheered their now

deserted doors, Have, since my last sojourning, swelled these melancholy

stores !

Yon spot, where in the sunset ray a single white stone

gleams, I've visited, I cannot tell how often in my dreams



That spot o'er which I wept, though then too young my

loss to know, As I beheld my father's form sepulchred far below.

How freshly every circumstance, though seas swept wide

between, And years have vanished since that hour, in vagaries I've

seen! The lifted lid—that countenance the funeral array, As vividly as if the scene were but of yesterday.

How pleasant seem the moments now, as up their shad

ows come, Spent in that domicil which wore the sacred name of

home, How in the vista years have made, they shine with mel

lowed light, To which meridian bliss has nought so beautiful and


How happy were those fireside hours—how happy sum

mer's walk, When listening to my father's words or joining in the


How passed like dreams those early hours, till down upon

us burst The avalanche of grief, and laid our pleasures in the dust!



They tell of loss, but who can tell how thorough is the

stroke By which the tie of sire and son in death's for ever broke? They tell of Time !—though he may heal the heart that's

wounded sore, The household bliss thus blighted, Time! canst thou

again restore ?

Yet if this spot recalls the dead, and brings from memory's

leaf A sentence wrote in bitterness, of raptures, bright and

brief, I would not shun it, nor would lose the moral it will give, To teach me by the withered past, for better hopes to live.

And though to warn of future wo, or whisper future bliss, One comes not from the spirit world, a witness unto this, Yet from memorials of his dust,'tis wholesome thus to learn And print upon our thought the state to which we must


Wherever then my pilgrimage in coming days shall be, My frequent visions, favourite ground! shall backward

glance to thee; The holy dead, the bygone hours, the precepts early given, Shall sweetly soothe and influence my homeward way to




Yes, dear one, to the envied train

Of those around thy homage pay; But wilt thou never kindly deign

To think of him that's far away?
Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile,

For many years I may not see;
But wilt thou not sometimes the while,

My sister dear, remember me?

But not in fashion's brilliant hall,

Surrounded by the gay and fair, And thou the fairest of them all,

O, think not, think not of me there. But when the thoughtless crowd is gone,

And hushed the voice of senseless glee, And all is silent, still, and lone,

And thou art sad, remember me.

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