Sweet dream, to my pillow return!
The heart-weary wanderer cheer
Redeem from the mouldering urn
The treasures of memory dear!
Methought I trod light on the bank
Where bloom’d my lov’d eglantine’s flow’r,
And sought ’midst the mistletoe dank
The roof of my lost Lucy’s bow’r.
The moon on her long lov’d abode
Shone bright as in midsummer’s eve
While I sprang thro’ the far winding road
The kisses of peace to receive.
Joy lighted the white-column’d hall,
Love smil’d on the steps of the door;
Then revelry woke at the call
Of them, who shall waken no more!
The woodbine hung gay round the thatch
Now sunk with the wrecks of the wave;
And I saw on the half-open’d latch
The hand which is dust in the grave!
The corn-reapers sung on the hill
Where now the wild wood pigeon cries;
How blithe seem’d the hum of the mill
Where lonely the winter-wind sighs!
Blest land! shall I view thee no more?
Shall my feet never press thee again?
But fancy thy charms shall restore —
For me they unfaded remain!
Thy dome may be silent and cold,
Yet memory claims it her own:
The ruin I cannot behold
To me shall be ever unknown.
The axe of the stranger has laid
My bow’r of lov’d eglantines low;
But memory visits their shade —
Still, still in her Eden they grow!
My groves may be leafless and shorn
Yet fancy still pictures their prime;
She hears not my foresters mourn,
She sees not the footsteps of time.
The faces I loved in their bloom
All faded and furrow’d may be;
The hearts may lie cold in the tomb
Which bounded in gladness with me.
But I shall not their relics survey,
Nor tread the green turf where they sleep,
Nor see round their mouldering clay
The moss of the sepulchre creep!
No, still let me fancy them near
While thro’ the dim valley I roam,
Their voices at midnight I hear
They call the poor wanderer home!
My friends! ye assemble there still
The home of a Father ye share!
My path may be dreary and chill
But soon ye shall welcome me there!
Respectfully offered for the Attic Chest