120 HARVEY D. LITTLE. [1830-40. THE WANDERER'S RETURN. I CAME once more, a wearied man, To look upon that holy spot, Where first my infant life began To journey through its changeful lot. I came ! — A thousand shadows play Upon the mirror of my mind — The phantoms of a happier day In Memory's sacred keeping shrined. I gaze ! and lo ! before me rise The shades of many a hallowed foi'm : They pass before my wilder'd eyes, With looks as blooming, young, and warm. As twice ten years ago they seem'd. When last in sportive hour we met : But ah ! we then had never dream'd That youth's bright sun so soon would set. Where are they now ? — I find them not Where erst their glorious forms were found ! Each favorite haunt, each well known spot. Echoes no more the cheerful sound Of their glad voices. They are gone. O'er hills, and streams, and valleys wide ; Scatter'd like leaves by autumn strown. E'en in their freshest bloom and pride. The placid brook still winds its way . Through sloping banks bedeck'd with flowers : The zephyrs through the leaflets play, The same as in life's early hours. But time and change have strangely cast O'er every spot a lonesome air : My thoughts are treasur'd with the past — My happiest moments center there. I feel that e'en my childhood's home Hath lost its once mysterious charm ! No voice parental bids me come — None greets me with affection warm ! But yet, amid my being's blight, One nourish'd thought with fondness glows — That where mine eyes first hailed the light. There they, at last, shall darkly close. ON JUDAH'S HILLS. On Judah's hill the towering palm Still spreads its branches to the sky, The same through years of storm and calm, As erst it was in days gone by. When Israel's king poured forth his psalm In strains of sacred melody. And Lebanon, thy forests green Are waving in the lonely w^ind. To mark the solitary scene. Where wandering Israel's hopes are shrined ; But the famed Temple's ancient sheen The pilgrim seeks, in vain, to find. And Kedron's brook, and Jordan's tide. Roll onward to the sluggish sea : But where is Salem's swollen pride, Her chariots, and her chivalry. Her Tyrian robes in purple dyed. Her warlike hosts, who scorned to flee? Gone ! all are gone ! In sullen mood The cruel Ai-ab wanders there. In search of human spoils and blood ; The victims of his wily snare : And where the holy prophets stood The wild beasts make their secret lair. But, oh ! Judea, there shall come For thee another glorious morn ; When thy retreats shall be a home For thousands pining now forlorn. In distiint lands ; — no more to roam The objects of disdain and scorn.
