Rural Rambles - The Village

Sweet village! where my early days were pass'd, Though parted long, we meet, we meet at last! Like friends, imbrown'd by many a sun and wind, Much changed in mien, but more in heart and mind, Fair, after many years, thy fields appear, With joy beheld, but not without a tear. I met thy little river miles before I saw again my natal cottage door: Unchanged as truth, the river welcomed home The wanderer of the sea's heart-breaking foam; But the changed cottage, like a time-tried friend, Smote on my heart-strings, at my journey's end. For now no lilies bloom the door beside! The very house-leek on the roof hath died; The window'd gable's ivy bower is gone, The rose departed from the porch of stone; The pink, the violet, have fled away, The polyanthus and auricula! And round my home, once bright with flowers, I found Not one square yard, one foot of garden ground. Path of the quiet fields! that oft of yore Call'd me at morn on Shenstone's page to pore; Oh! poor man's pathway! where, 'at evening's close,' He stopp'd to pluck the woodbine and the rose, Shaking the dew-drop from the wild-brier bowers, That stoop'd beneath their load of summer flowers, Then eyed the west, still bright with fading flame, As whistling homeward by the wood he came; Sweet, dewy, sunny, flowery footpath, thou Art gone for ever, like the poor man's cow! No more the wandering townsman's Sabbath smile, No more the hedger, waiting on the stile For tardy Jane; no more the muttering bard, Startling the heifer near the lone farm-yard; No more the pious youth, with book in hand, Spelling the words he fain would understand,- Shall bless thy mazes, when the village bell Sounds o'er the river, soften'd up the dell. Here youngling fishers, in the grassy lane, Purloin'd their tackle from the brood-mare's mane; And truant urchins, by the river's brink, Caught the fledged throstle as it stoop'd to drink; Or with the ramping colt, all joyous play'd, Or scared the owlet in the blue-ball shade.