To the flowery banks and braes, Where old Monkwood flouts the sky Ne'er did mansion more uncouth Us and some with whom we roved Come with us; those woods should be Dear to you as dear to me; Though you ne'er, in childhood's hours, Roam'd amidst their banks and bowers, Though far other scenes than these Haunt your young remembrances, Yet, believe me, you shall soon Love yon bright and brawling Doon; And the hearts that in them dwell, And yon graceless house, as well, Other haunts than these alone; Ere Death's touch had harm'd us yet, Come with us; our time is short In those cherish'd haunts to sport; All things mortal wax and wane, may we even now complain, Nor That from us and ours, alas ! Must these pleasant places pass; We have twined our favourite bowers; That our own beloved Doon Must for other ears too soon Where our loved and lost have been; In the rooms we love so well; In their old simplicity. So it is-we find on earth No continuing home or hearth; Still through chance and change we roam, Seeking better lands to come. Come with us, and we will go Where the streams of Zion flow, Through the city of our God, Which no foot profane hath trod. Change and sorrow come not there, All is fix'd, as all is fair. Earthly glories fade and fleet, Nothing long on Earth is sweet; Clear and sparkling as of old, On his banks the forms that gave Half their sweetness,-for the grave Others, in their Eastern home, Wander haply, in their dreams, Through the woods and near the streams, And their temples strewn with grey, Come with us-let Memory still Feed and cherish, as she will, Forms of beauty gone and past, Pleasures too intense to last. be Meet support therein may Whither Faith, and Hope, and Love, Urge our laggard steps above: Let us such high call obey, Help each other on the way; Through the narrow entrance press Where, in joy's eternal river, This world's griefs are lost for ever. H MIDSUMMER MUSINGS. WITH slow and toilsome course, this summer noon, Have I, in pensive and fantastic mood, Yon English hearth and household, wound my way Whence, with a quick and comprehensive glance, Which fills the soul with beauty, the glad eye Takes in a vast and richly-varied plain Of England's own fertility, adorn'd At intervals with old ancestral balls, Trim farms and village spires, which crown the hills, Of that which still hath been and still shall be, And turbulent assaults of godless men, Matured and cherish'd. On the extremest verge |