Poems (Mitford)/On revisiting the School where I was educated

by Mary Russell Mitford

ON

REVISITING THE SCHOOL,

WHERE I WAS EDUCATED.

ON REVISITING THE SCHOOL WHERE I WAS EDUCATED.

ADDRESSED TO MRS. ROWDEN, OF HANS PLACE.

Dear scene of childhood's happy hour!
I feel thy softly soothing pow'r;
Again I view thy well-known walls!
Again I tread thy classic halls!
Here scenes of simple pleasure rise
In sweet succession to my eyes;
And here does pensive mem'ry love
With many a fond regret to rove;
She loves in each remember'd place
Improvement, or delight, to trace;
For still instruction's genial pow'r
With learning wing'd the fleeting hour,
And yet, so mild her gentle sway,
That pleas'd the youthful band obey.

 Within the dome with learning stor'd,
Our daily studies we explor'd;
Or when, th' allotted lesson done,
Had struck the wish'd-for hour of one,
From care, from woe, from envy free,
We sported here with frolic glee.
My fair companions! though no more
Ye bound across the well-known floor,
Though few of all the youthful train,
Within these peaceful walls remain,
Yet still can faithful mem'ry trace
The features of each blooming face!
To me their graceful forms appear!
Each gentle voice I seem to hear!
And fancy lends her vivid ray
To gild fair childhood's halcyon day!

 Amidst the garden's peaceful shade,
Where oft with sportive glee we play'd,
While some, reclin'd in verdant bow'rs,
With tales amus'd the passing hours,
And some their fav'rite flow'rs attend,
I roam'd with my selected friend;
And, constant to the maid I lov'd,
With Zosia still I fondly rov'd.
Oh! she was fair! and wise! and good!
And sprung from Poland's noblest blood!
To others, haughty she might be,
But kind and gentle still to me!
In yon deserted path we walk'd,
Of home and our dear parents talk'd,
Or glowing with some rural theme,
Together wove the fairy dream:
For even then could nature's charm
My young imagination warm,
And landscapes, mountainous and wild,
Had charm'd the visionary child.
For I had heard old ocean roar
And chafe 'gainst Dorset's rocky shore;
Had listen'd to the sea-bird's cries,
Had mark'd the gath'ring tempest rise,
And, fearless 'mid the deaf'ning jar,
Had watch'd the elemental war.

 But chief in some sequester'd cot
I sigh'd to fix my tranquil lot;
Some straw-rooft cot, 'mid southern vales,
And fann'd by Devon's balmy gales;
The white-wash'd walls and lattice clean,
Scarce through the twining jasmine seen;
The little garden's simple bound
With rose and myrtle fenc'd around;
A nameless, winding streamlet there,
Midst shaggy copse-wood glist'ning fair;
While shelt'ring trees behind it rise,
And mountains tow'ring to the skies:
In such a cot what bliss to dwell
With those dear friends I lov'd so well!
And still is childhood's happy dream
Of youth's romantic wish, the theme;
No cot to me so fair appears,
As that my glowing fancy rears,
And, e'en 'mid Berkshire's woody vales,
I sigh for Devon's balmy gales.

 With lofty tales of feudal power
Would Zosia charm the ling'ring hour,
Describe her father's princely dome,
The splendors of her native home;
The slaves, that follow'd where she trod,
And swift obey'd her slightest nod;
Yet, had she learnt on this blest shore
To wish that slav'ry liv'd no more,
For many a tale of negro woe
Had bid her gen'rous bosom glow,
Pitying, she sigh'd at their distress,
And languish'd for the pow'r to bless.
Perchance it might be her's to save,
From equal grief, some Polish slave!
To life, to liberty restore!
And bid his bosom bleed no more!—
Alas, my dear-lov'd friend, 'tis thine
In hopeless, helpless woe, to pine!
'Tis thine in youth's enchanting hour,
And grac'd with beauty's witching pow'r,
Of ev'ry kindred friend bereav'd,
In ev'ry cherish'd hope deceiv'd,
To learn in that lov'd land to mourn,
An orphan, friendless, and forlorn!—
But still, my Zosia, youth and health
Are thine, and mines of mental wealth;
Again may prosp'rous Fortune pour
Fresh blessings from her golden store,
Some kindred spirit bid arise
Thy yet unwaken'd sympathies,
Till Poland's dreary deserts prove
A paradise illum'd by love!

 But where is she, the only fair
Whose charms with Zosia's could compare,
The sweet Eliza? polish'd grace
Deck'd her fair form and lovely face;
Whilst the pure influence of her soul
Shed soften'd radiance o'er the whole:
Breath'd in her voice, when Handel's strain
Seraphic, thrill'd through every vein,
Gave added force to Boileau's sense,
Or glow'd in Milton's eloquence.
Her's was high honor; spotless truth!
Her's the gay laughing charms of youth!—
O where is now that lovely form?
Where that pure heart in feeling warm?
Where the sweet smiles that nature gave?
They rest in dear Eliza's grave,
In youth's fair spring, in beauty's pride,
In virtue's early prime—she died.

 Yet still the echoing chambers ring
To fair Victoria's magic string:
Sweet tuneful maid! at her controul
Alternate passions fire the soul!
As o'er her harp with bending grace
The strings her flying fingers trace,
Now lightly rings the sprightly measure
To gayest airs of joy and pleasure:
And now, with high and haughty sound,
The mimic notes of war rebound:
Sudden they pause, and soft and slow,
In murm'ring cadence, sad and low,
Some sweetly plaintive melody
At distance seems to fall and die.
With mute delight we hover near
The strains, which still we seem to hear!
To move, to breathe we scarcely dare,
So soft, so sad, so sweet the air!
Nor yet alone by music's art
Can fair Victoria charm the heart!
Whether she join in converse gay,
With arch and playful naïveté;
Or, whether on her pitying breast
She lull a brother's cares to rest;
Still ever lovely, ever dear,
Of temper soft, and heart sincere,
Her varying charms the soul inspire,
And all the beauteous maid admire.

 There grace and symmetry combine,
To mock the sculptor's skill divine,
And round the young Olivia glows
A brighter charm, than beauty knows.
Who can like her with sylphid grace
The "poetry of motion" trace?
In airy bound, or slow advance,
Thread the soft mazes of the dance?
In easy elegance recline,
Or in light sportive movement twine?
Whilst modesty's celestial veil
Improves the charms it would conceal;
And in that mild and polish'd mien,
Shines spotless innocence serene.
Yet those blue eyes and looks demure,
That speak a heart both cold and pure,
Are oft by radiant fancy lit,
And sparkle with etherial wit;
Till scarce the gentle girl we know
Who hides, like Etna crown'd with snow,
The fires that in her bosom glow.
There too presides the gentle fair,
Who made me her peculiar care.
To me by ev'ry tie endear'd!
And still admir'd, belov'd, rever'd!
Skill'd in the rare and happy art
To win the timid, youthful heart;
By manners grac'd with courtly ease,
By playful wit, secure to please.
But who shall tell her mind's rich store,
Imbued with many-languag'd lore?
Who shall the thousand virtues tell,
That in her gentle bosom dwell?
Oh! could I catch from you, bright dame!
One spark of your immortal flame,
My verse should pay the tribute due
To friendship, gratitude, and you!
Twas yours, with polish'd art, to twine
A lovely wreath for Flora's shrine,
To fairest flow'rs fresh beauties give,
Which in your glowing strains shall live,
And bid each opening bud impart
Some lesson, to the female heart,
And now, with nobler visions fir'd,
By friendship's holy zeal inspir'd,
At her pure altars, lo! you bend,
To her poetic vows ascend,
For her you tune the warbling string,
Her triumphs and her joys to sing;
And emulate the classic fame
Of Rogers' and of Campbell's name.

 Lov'd friend of childhood's early day,
Still deign to guide my devious way!
What, though I fondly strive in vain
Like you to frame the polish'd strain;
Though no bright rays of genius fire,
But faintly breathes the trembling lyre,
Yet be your bright example mine!
And lead my steps to virtue's shrine!