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Ashover! Be thy name, for ever green, Encircled round, by many a breezy hill; From which, the ancient Village Church is seen Down in the sheltered vale, so calm, and still. In that secluded spot just rest awhile, Beneath those grand and lofty trees that throw Their shadow, o'er the "Venerable Pile" And sculptured monuments; of grief and woe. These tell a tale, of many a sorrow here, Of friends departed, - lovers left alone; One mourns a wife, and that, a husband dear, A Mother, this! on that poor humble stone. Yes! There she lies, the one who gave me birth, And nursed my infant form too brief alas! Her stay, upon this ever changing earth From which the longest lived must quickly pass. |
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Had she but lived, to life's allotted span, My life (till manhood), happier might have been; But then who truly, does the future plan, Or paint the landscape, they have never seen. I do not murmur, though I ponder o'er My youthful days, which never can return, Regrets, are useless, let me "look-before", My steps, are hastening; to an unknown bourn. Where life's grand mystery! shall be understood, And all made plain, without a shade of doubt; Those need not fear, whose lives are truly good And sinners, who repent, are not cast out. "Spite-Winter" what a name; yet how it brings To memory, scenes of childhood, long ago The stony crags, the tiny rippling springs, And sombre woods, where curious mosses grow. |
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"Stone-Edge" the place, where all my youthful days In childish innocence, were passed, among The quiet fields; or on the lone highways In boyish glee, I gaily tripped along. Without a single care, to mar the joy Of perfect freedom, from the toil and strife Which many feel - how happy when a boy I roved at will - no passions, yet were rife. To fill my mind, with sad forebodings - now The woods I roamed, and watched the squirrel climb The lofty trees, and spring from bough, to bough Thrice happy days that glorious summer time. Yes, then! life had a charm, which only those Brought up in nature's wilds; can ever know Who love the scented hawthorn, and the rose That on the hedges, in wild beauty grow. |
And still though sixty years, have passed away, Scarce aught, seems changed, the woods, and rocks, are there The quiet fields, and flowers just as gay, And birds, as blithly sing, your hearts to cheer. Perchance, I may not view those scenes again If so, farewell! I shall not soon forget Those hills, and dales, no! they will still remain Fresh in my memory, ever fondly yet. August 1888. |