I mind as if 'twere yesterday, The hour when first I stood beside The margin of yon rushing tide, And watched its wild waves in their play; These locks that now are thin and gray, Then clustered thick and dark as thine, And few had strength of arm like mine. Thou seest how many a furrow now Time's hand hath ploughed athwart my brow: Well, then it was without a line;-- And I had other treasures too, Of which 'tis useless now to vaunt; Friends, who were kind, and warm, and true; A heart, that danger could not daunt; A soul, with wild dreams wildly stirred; And hope that had not been deferred. I cannot count how many years Have since gone by, but toil and tears, And the lone heart's deep agony, I feel have sadly altered me;-- Yet mourn I not the change, for those I loved or scorned, my friends or foes, Have fallen and faded, one by one, As time's swift current hurried by, Till I, of all my kith alone, Am left to wait, and wish to die.
VII.
How strong a hand hath Time! Man rears, And names his work immortal; years Go by. Behold! where dwelt his pride, Stern Desolation's brood abide; The owl within his bower sits, The lone bat through his chamber flits; Where bounded by the buoyant throng, With measured step, and choral song, The wily serpent winds along; While the Destroyer stalketh by, And smiles, as if in mockery. How strong a band hath Time! Love weaves His wreath of flowers and myrtle leaves, (Methinks his fittest crown would be A chaplet from the cypress tree;) With hope his breast is swelling high, And brightly beams his laughing eye; But soon hishopes are mixed with fears, And soon his smiles are quenched in tears: Then Disappointment's blighting breath Breathes o'er him, and he droops to death; While the Destroyer glideth by, And smiles, as if in mockery. How strong a hand hath Time! Fame wins The eager youth to her embrace; With tameless ardour he begins, And follows up the bootless race; Ah! bootless--for, as on he hies, With equal speed the phantom flies, Till youth, and strength, and vigour gone, He faints, and sinks, and dies unknown; While the Destroyer passeth by, And smiles, as if in mockery. Gaze, stranger, on the scene below; 'Tis scarce a century ago, Since here abode another race, The men of tomahawk and bow, The savage sons of war and chase; Yet where, ah! where, abide they now? Go search, and see if thou canst find, One trace which they have left behind, A single mound, or mossy grave, That holds the ashes of the brave; A single lettered stone to say That they have lived, and passed away. Men soon will cease to name their name, Oblivion soon will quench their fame, And the wild story of their fate, Will yet be subject of debate, 'Twixt antiquarians sage and able, Who doubt if it be truth or fable.
VIII.
I said I minded well the time, When first beside yon stream I stood; Then one interminable wood, In its unbounded breadth sublime, And in its loneliness profound, Spread like a leafy sea around. To one of foreign land and birth, Nursed 'mid the loveliest scenes of earth, But now from home and friends exiled, Such wilderness were doubly wild;-- I thought it so, and scarce could I My tears repress, when standing by The river's brink, I thought of mine Own native stream, the glorious Rhine! For, near to it, with loving eye, My mother watched my infancy; Along its banks my childhood strayed, With its strong waves my boyhood played. And I could see, in memory, still My father's cottage on the hill, With green vines trailing round and o'er Wall, roof and casement, porch and door: Yet soon I learned yon stream to bless, And love the wooded wilderness. I could not then have told thee how The change came o'er my heart, but now I knowfull well the charm that wrought, Into my soul, the spell of thought-- Of tender, pensive thought, which made Me love the forest's deepest shade, And listen, with delighted ear, To the low voice of waters near, As gliding, gushing, gurgling by, They utter their sweet minstrelsy. I scarce need give that _charm_ a name; Thy heart, I know, hath felt the same,-- Ah! where is mind, or heart, or soul, That has not bowed to its control?
IX.
