As on I journey through the vale of years, Cheer'd by fond hopes, and chill'd by doubtful fears; Allow me, Memory, in thy treasur'd store, To view those days that will return no more: Oh! let thy vivid pencil call to view Each distant scene, each long-past hour anew, Ere yet my bosom knew the touch of grief, Ere yet my bosom lov'd the lyre's relief. Yes, as thou dart'st thine intellectual ray, The clouds of mental darkness melt away: So when, at earliest day's awaking dawn, The hovering mists obscure the dewy lawn, O'er all the champain spread their influence chill, Hang o'er the vale, and hide the lofty hill; Anon, slow rising, beams the orb of day, Slow melt the shadowy mists, and fade away; The vapours vanish at the view of morn, And hang in dew-drops on the glistening thorn; The prospect opens on the pilgrim's sight, And hills, and vales, and woods, reflect the beam of light. O thou! the mistress of my future days, Accept thy minstrel's retrospective lays; To whom the minstrel and the lyre belong, Accept, ARISTE, Memory's pensive song! For Memory on thine image loves to hang, Heave the sad sigh, and point the piercing pang. Of long-past days I sing, ere yet I knew Or grief and care, or happiness and you; Ere yet my infant bosom learnt to prove The pangs of absence, and the hopes of love. So when the pilgrim, on his journey bent, With upward toil creeps on the steep ascent; Ere yet his feet the destin'd height attain, Oft will he pause, and gaze the journey'd plain; Oft pause again, the valley to survey, Where food or slumber sooth'd his wand'ring way. ALSTON! twelve years, in various business fled, Have wing'd their restless flight o'er BION's head; Twelve years have taught his opening mind to know The smiles of pleasure, and the frowns of woe; Since in thy vale, beneath the master's rule, He roam'd an inmate of the village school: Yet still will memory's busy eye retrace Each well-known vestige of the oft-trod place; Each wonted haunt, each scene of youthful joy, Where merriment has cheer'd the careless boy: Well pleas'd will memory still the spot survey, Where once he triumph'd in the infant play, Without one care where every morn he rose, Where every evening sunk to calm repose.