I walked down many an avenue,
Through many a tutored shade,
And with my thoughts, as idlers do,
In idleness I played:
Delicious maze of grove and hill,
And fountains far away!
But I was free, and knew my will,
And made my heart obey.
By terraces, by statues fair
My steps awhile were led,
Or glimpses of the outer air
Still beckoning on ahead:
At last, grown weary of success
And pleasure always found,
I took a path that promised less,
And seemed neglected ground.
A green-grown path, through gloomy screens
Of damp holm-oak it pressed,
Yet confident, as though its means
Were more than it confessed:
But soon it ran less free and fleet,
Then, like a thing afraid,
Stopped suddenly beneath my feet,
Within a silent glade.
No statues here, no marble cup
Still dripping with the stream!
No cypresses still spiring up
Terrific as a dream!
No royalty, no pride of heart,
No tall Palladian dome;
—But 'twas a garden of the heart,
'Twas England,—it was home!
Dear Charnwood, thou hast glades like this
Hid in thy rocky breast!
How often, tranced in summer bliss,
Such scenes have I possessed!
How often sighed for them I love
To see and take their part,
Then checked the sigh that would disprove
Their presence—in my heart.
Banks green and smooth, with stems beset,
And such a shade o'erhead
As lapped a richer violet
Upon a mossier bed;
Retired, yet free to eve and morn,
Such haunts the ranging deer
Would mark, and lead her trotting fawn
To couch in sunshine here.
How wildly leaned those antic trees!
Like Bacchanals they flung
Their arms,—upon their ecstacies
As upon wings they hung!
Yet here no riotous thoughts intrude;
Even in these postures free
Is seen the staid and stately mood
Of Nature's liberty.
What pageantry is here to pass?
Those sheets of golden green,
Spread they for none across the grass,
Or for a Fairy Queen?
March on, proud Creatures, in your state,
While ivy sparkles bright,
And mossy stems illuminate
With a sedater light.
Vain fancies these! and I surmise
They came not then between
My startled heart or my glad eyes
And that delightful scene.
Or if they came I could not know,
A captive and a prey
Was I to times so long ago,
And things so far away.
My Father's garden it was spread
Before me in my mind;
Its ancient apple-trees they shed
Their flowers upon the wind:
Its walks, that ran like forest brooks
Through sunshine and through shade,
Its plots for play, its dappled nooks
For musing converse made.
Each bank, each bush in all the place
Took a familiar show,
There was no step of that fair space
I did not seem to know:
Sight grew bewildered, reason swerved
Beneath the magic beam,
Till all the real only served
To authenticate the dream.
The plays a city fancy played
Took aptly to the scene,
Here gleamed the Hermitage, embayed
In its appropriate green;
There towered (and peeped into a street)
The ruined arch alone,
Yon flowery square of fifty feet,
A desert all its own.
And ah, what figures rose to view
Among those pleasant glades!
What aspects, joining old with new
In ever-mingling shades!
So few, and yet so many grown,
While memory's wizard ray
Transmutes the yellow locks to brown,
And brown, alas! to grey.
What Sabbath mornings rose once more,
Dear Mother, while with pride
A stumbling servitor I bore
The basket at thy side!
And all the flowers that fell to ground
A perquisite of mine,
—Own Mother, where were ever found
Such careless hands as thine!
Then on the garden seat in haste
The fragrant spoil we ranged,
And oft their place beneath thy taste
The patient buds exchanged:
Nor few the nosegays to be wrought
In honour of the day,
For in that household none was thought
Too humble to be gay.
And what sweet eves come slanting bright
Across the emerald floor!
What voices rise, like founts of light!
—Now dark for evermore!
What laughter on the still air rings!
Alas that laughters die
(Such foresight clogs even lightest things)
In action of a sigh.
The thunders of the battledore
Assault the day's decline!
The lamp within shines more and more,
The chimes are jangling nine!
Confusion on thee, drudging clock!
We only own to-day
Time vaulting with the shuttlecock
That leads our joyful play.
Yet one more round! who struck so high?
That soaring flight assures
A vigorous arm, a faultless eye,
—Dear Father, whose but yours?
And whose but yours the wit that flies
In richest sparkles round,
Wit that is wisdom in disguise,
Sense that disports in sound.
But stay! the visions throng too fast!
O calm and sylvan scene,
Renounce that dangerous spell, the past,
Let what has been have been!
Such awful insight unto me
Thine aspect doth reveal,
As almost 'tis too much to see,
Ah, how much more to feel!