HOME.

I LEFT my home;--'twas in a little vale,

Sheltered from snow-storms by the stately pines;

A small clear river wandered quietly,

Its smooth waves only cut by the light barks

Of fishers, and but darkened by the shade

The willows flung, when to the southern wind

They threw their long green tresses. On the slope

Were five or six white cottages, whose roofs

Reached not to the laburnum's height, whose boughs

Shook over them bright showers of golden bloom.

Sweet silence reigned around:--no other sound

Came on the air, than when the shepherd made

The reed-pipe rudely musical, or notes

From the wild birds, or children in their play

Sending forth shots or laughtere. Strangers came

Rarely or never near the lonely place. . . .

I went into far countries. Years past by,

But still that vale in silent beauty dwelt

Within my memory. Home I came at last.

I stood upon a mountain height, and looked

Into the vale below; and smoke arose,

And heavy sounds; and through the thick dim air

Shot blackened turrets, and brick walls, and roofs

Of the red tile. I entered in the streets:

There were ten thousand hurrying to and fro;

And masted vessels stood upon the river,

And barges sullied the once dew-clear stream.

Where were the willows, where the cottages?

I sought my home; I sought and found a city,

Alas! for the green valley!