Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/192

188 Some hard-earned prize for toil-spent days Or dearer still, our teacher's praise.

With riper years, and school-days spent, Still were our plans and pleasures blent, The needle's art and pencil's power Wrought the same landscape, form, or flower, O'er the same book our raptures rose, The same secluded haunt we chose, By rugged rock, or sounding stream, We woke the same enthusiast dream, Through solemn grove, at noon of day, To secret bower we stole away, And summer eve, so sadly fair, Looked through the shades and found us there. Time told not true his muffled hour To tuneful brook, or listening flower, And we, entranced, were heedless quite To count his sands, or mark his flight.

Yet not alone, o'er cloudless skies Did Friendship throw her golden dies, Nor knew I with what full control Thou hadst dominion o'er my soul, Companion meek, until thy tear Fell trickling o'er affection's bier; For holy Friendship soars more high 'Neath sorrow's chastening ministry,