Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/308

 LAPSE OF YEARS.

��COME to thy native village, thou, who long

Hast been a denizen of richer climes

And prouder domes. Nature in her best garb

Welcomes thee back, and like a peasant-friend

Exulting, filleth at her cottage-door

The beechen cup, with honied balm, for thee.

She fain would tell thee tales of every change

In her slight drama, since thou last wert here,

Tho' none her scene hath shifted, or exchang'd

Her honest-hearted actors, save grey Time,

Scattering the elm-leaves o'er the russet walk,

Or to the seedling in its bed of mould

Whispering that spring had come. She bids thee si

Thy favourite brook, where memory, ancient crone,

Waiteth to point thee where thy tiny boat

Or water-wheel sped gaily, or to show

The broader pool, upon whose icy glade

Thy foot was fleetest, while thy merry voice

Rang like a bugle, when the shout was high.

�� �