Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/192

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,