Page:Ambarvalia - Clough (1849).djvu/130

 The plays a city fancy played Took aptly to the scene, Here gleamed the Hermitage, embayed In its appropriate green; There towered (and peeped into a street) The ruined arch alone, Yon flowery square of fifty feet, A desert all its own.

And ah, what figures rose to view Among those pleasant glades! What aspects, joining old with new In ever-mingling shades! So few, and yet so many grown, While memory's wizard ray Transmutes the yellow locks to brown, And brown, alas! to grey.

What Sabbath mornings rose once more, Dear Mother, while with pride A stumbling servitor I bore The basket at thy side! And all the flowers that fell to ground A perquisite of mine, —Own Mother, where were ever found Such careless hands as thine!