Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/223

Even thus it is, where'er we range,
Throughout this world of care and change,
Though Fancy every prospect gild,
Or Fortune write each wish fulfilled,
Still, pausing 'mid our varied track,
To childhood's realm we turn us back,
And wider as the hand of time
Removes us from that sunny clime,
And nearer as our footsteps urge
To weary life's extremest verge,
With fonder smile, with brighter beam,
Its far-receding landscapes gleam,
And closer to the withered breast,
Its renovated charms are prest.
    And thus the stream, as on it flows,
'Neath summer-suns, or wintry snows,
Through vale, or maze, or desert led,
Untiring tells its pebbly bed,
How passing sweet the buds that first
Upon its infant marge were nurst,
How rich the violet's breath perfumed,
That near its cradle-fountain bloomed,
And deems no skies were e'er so fair
As kindled o'er its birth-place there.