Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/106

90 Wrought inward, 'mid the faded imagery Of early days. See, there, yon low-brow'd cot, Whose threshold oft my childish foot has cross'd So merrily,—whose hearth-stone shone so bright At eve, where, with her skilful needle wrought The industrious matron, while our younger group Beguil'd with fruit, and nuts, and storied page, The winter's stormy hour,—where are they now?— Who coldly answers?—dead! Fast by its side, A dearer mansion stands, where my young eyes First opened on the light. That garden's bound, Where erst I roam'd delighted, deeming earth, With all its wealth, had nought so beautiful AS its trim hedge of roses, and the ranks Of daffodils, with snow-drops at their feet, How small and chang'd it seems! The velvet turf With its cool arbour, where I lingered long Conning my little lesson, or, perchance, Eyeing the slowly-ripening peach, that lean'd Its downy cheek against the lattic'd wall,— Or holding converse with the violet-buds, That were to me as sisters,—giving back Sweet thoughts,—say, is it not less green than when My childhood wander'd there? Lo! by rude rocks O'ercanopied,—the dome, where science taught