Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house[337-3] our own. Shortlived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, That humour[338-4] interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers[338-5] may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued[338-6] flowers, The violet, the pink, the jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin,[338-7] (And thou wast happier than myself the while-- Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,)-- Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart,--the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. But no,--what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bounds again.