THE RIVER WEAR.
ome back, come back, my childhood,
To the old familiar spot,
Whose wild flowers, and whose wild wood
Have never been forgot.
It is the shining river,
With the bulrush by its tide,
Where I filled my green rush quiver
With arrows at its side.
And deemed that knightly glories
Were honoured as of old.
My head was filled with stories
My aged nurse had told.
The Douglas and the Percy
Alike were forced to yield;
I had but little mercy
Upon the battle field.
Ah! folly of the fancies,
That haunt our childhood’s hour.
And yet those old romances
On after life have power,
When the weight appears too weary
With which we daily strive,
’Mid the actual and the dreary,
How much they keep alive!
How often, amid hours
By life severely tried,
Have I thought on those wild flowers
On the sweet Wear’s silver tide.
Each ancient recollection
Brought something to subdue;
I lived in old affection,
And felt the heart was true.
I am come again with summer,
It is lovely to behold.
Will it welcome the new comer,
As it seemed to do of old?
46
