Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/331



Earlsburn, blythe Earlsburn, Mine own, my native stream, My heart grows young again, while thus On thy green banks I dream. Yes, dream! in sooth I can no more, For as thy murmurs roll, They wake the ancient melodies That stirred my infant soul.

I've told thee, one by one, the thoughts; Strange shapeless forms were they, That hung around me fearfuHy In childhood's dreamy day. And still thy mystic music spake Dimly articulate, Yielding meet answer to the dreams That shadowed forth my fate.

I've wept by thee a sorrowing child; I've sported, mad with glee,