XXIII.
Or yet, perchance, their glance might now recall
The scene whore childhood viewed the starry dome
Bent circling o’er their blest abode; where all
The world was centred, and each lovely bloom
Its birth-place had; as if for that dear home
The sun was made to shine and stars appear,
While sombre clouds or threatening storms would come,
As comes the ungenial shade of gloomy care
On boyhood’s sunny brow, unmeant to linger there.
XXIV.
Dear home of childhood! some kind fairy dwells
In your enchanted scenes, and bids you share
Our love, and clothes you with her subtle spells!
Sentient you seem; your flowers, methinks, may hear
The maiden’s sigh, when heaves her bosom near
Your blushing buds, from sight of all afar,
Nor tell the wanton breeze that wanders there,
Nor the enamored bee, nor twinkling star,
That bosom’s secret love, or what its utterings are.
XXV.
There oft, with musing gaze, the sunset light
In boyhood they had viewed on grove and rill,
Till, dancing up from shrubby height to height,
It glanced its sportive beam from hill to hill,
And, from the mountain-top, in joyance still,
Leapt to the clouds, and peeped from pillows piled
Of beauteous hues, ere Evening drew her veil
Around its couch; then, like a rosy child,
It sunk to placid rest, and in its slumber smiled.
