That day I landed at Irvine, and resolved to pursue my journey homeward without stopping. As I travelled along, I felt that tumultuous fluttering and overflowing of the heart, and buoyancy of tread, which every sensitive being must have felt on re-visiting the land of his birth, after years of separation from all that was dear to him. The sun was setting when I reached the wood of Curcarth. It had been the haunt of many of my childish wanderings; there I had often roved, unconscious of where I was going. My soul, awed with the deep shade that the trees cast around, I trod as if on holy ground, while the ceaseless hum of its insect inhabitants, mingled with the wail of the cushat, cherished the deep pensive feeling which the scene had excited in my bosom. It was here that I first learned to commune with my own heart, and my imagination first soared into the realms of faëry. Near its margin was the stream, on whose banks I have lain listening to its murmuring, my gaze fixed on the world, portrayed in its transparent bosom so beautiful, so bright, I could scarcely believe it was not some world of spirituality, some realm of bliss. The scene was changed—winter had stripped it of all its attractions—the blast howled through the leafless trees—and the stream that had meandered so sweetly through the verdant plain, was now roaring down its channel with impetuous force. The scene was changed; but he who looked on it was not less so. Morning of life! too soon o’ercast, Young days of bliss, too dear to lose; Ah! whither have thy visions past That brighten’d all my childish views? For never yet when poets muse, Or maidens dream in bowers alone, Were glorious visions more profuse, Ah! whither have those visions gone?[17] I was roused from one of memory’s sweetest dreams, by the distant sound of bells—they were those of my native city—I had often heard them at the same hour—they spoke of wo, devotion, and joy, and scenes long gone by. In this softened state of feeling I entered the town, and, heedless of the throng, I hurried on to the home of my parents—reached the house—threw myself into their arms, and the first tumult of feeling over, I sat at the fireside, with my father on the one side, and my mother at the other, gazing affectionately upon me, while I talked of all I had seen, and all I had felt. Being tired after my journey, my mother suggested the propriety of my going to rest; and the tender hand that had often smoothed my pillow, again performed that office. I could not help comparing my situation with the nights that I had lain exposed to the storm, with the cold earth for my bed; and I felt a lively impulse of gratitude—worth a thousand formal prayers—to the Divine Being, who had watched over, and protected me through every danger, and brought me in safety back to my home and my parents.