1

POEMS.

CHILDHOOD:

A POEM.

This is one of Henry's earliest productions, and appears, by the handwriting, to have been written when he was between fourteen and fifteen. The picture of the school-mistress is from nature.

PART I.

PICTUR'D in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet

Our infant days, our infant joys to greet;

To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene,
The village church-yard, and the village-green,
The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade,
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade,
The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine grew,
And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew!
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze,
To view the unclouded skies of former days!

Beloved age of innocence and smiles,

When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles.

VOL. I.

5

10

When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true,
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.

Blest Childhood, hail !-Thee simply will I sing,
And from myself the artless picture bring;

These long-lost scenes to me the past restore,

15

Each humble friend, each pleasure, now no more,
And ev'ry stump familiar to my sight,

Recalls some fond idea of delight.

20

This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat;
Here did I love at evening to retreat,

And muse alone, till in the vault of night,
Hesper, aspiring, shew'd his golden light.

Here once again, remote from human noise,

25

I sit me down to think of former joys;

Pause on each scene, each treasur'd scene, once more,

And once again each infant walk explore.

While as each grove and lawn I recognize,

My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.

30

And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought;

Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye,
Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy;

Blest Memory, guide with finger nicely true,
Back to my youth my retrospective view;
Recall with faithful vigour to my mind,
Each face familiar, each relation kind;
And all the finer traits of them afford,

35

Whose general outline in my heart is stor❜d.

40

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls,
In many a fold, the mantling woodbine falls,
The village matron kept her little school,
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule;
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien;
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean;
Her neatly-border'd cap, as lily fair,

Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care;
And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn,
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn.

Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes,
A pair of spectacles their want supplies;
These does she guard secure, in leathern case,
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.

45

50

Here first I enter'd, tho' with toil and pain,

The low vestibule of learning's fane;

55

Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way,
Tho' sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display
Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn,
When I was first to school reluctant borne;
Severe I thought the dame, tho' oft she try'd

To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd;
And oft when harshly she reprov'd, I wept,
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept,

60

And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. 65

But soon enur'd to alphabetic toils,

Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;

First at the form, my task for ever true,

A little favourite rapidly I grew :

And oft she strok'd my head with fond delight,

70

Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight;

And as she gave my diligence its praise,

Talk'd of the honours of my future days.

Oh, had the venerable matron thought
Of all the ills by talent often brought;

75

Could she have seen me when revolving years

Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears,

Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate
Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state;

Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife,

80

Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life.

Where in the busy scene, by peace unblest,

Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest?

A lonely mariner on the stormy main,
Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain;

Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore,

When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more?
Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave
The sandy surface of his unwept grave.
Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms,
Serenest season of perpetual calms,→→
Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease,
And joy to think with thee I tasted peace.
Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles,
But each new object brings attendant smiles;