Native Attachment

Though year after year has rolled on to the deep,
Where their sorrows and joys in oblivion sleep,
Since my eye fondly lingered to look an adieu,
As the home of my childhood was fading from view,
Not a flower nor a vine round my loved native cot,
Through time's ceaseless changes, has e'er been forgot.

The song of the robin, that sang on the bough
Of the neighbouring pine, is as dear to me now;
The brook looks as clear to my memory's eye,
And the verdure as fresh on the banks it played by;
The lamb bounds as joyous and light o'er the glade,
As when 'mid those scenes I in infancy strayed.

And oft my dark hours of their cares are beguiled,
As fancy's bright wand turns me back to the child
That followed the flight of the butterfly's wing,
And plucked the red berries that welcomed the spring;
Or reached for the fair purple cluster, that hung
Where round the bowed alder the wild tendril clung.

The splendor of cities, the polish of art
May seek my devotion, and sue for my heart;
But no fount of delight on life's landscape will gush
Like that, which leapt down by the violet and rush;
No notes come so sweet as the song of the bird,
Which the ear of the child from the coppice first heard.

I find not a gem in my pathway so bright
As the fire-fly, pursued by my young feet at night.
Earth offers no flowers like the wild ones I wreathed;
No breeze comes from heaven like the air I first breathed.
No spot seems so pure in the wide vault on high,
As that which sent down the first light to my eye!