Whang’s mill, beside a sparkling brook, Stood shelter’d in a wooded nook: The stream, the willow’s whispering trees, The humming of the housing bees, Swell’d with soft sounds the summer breeze; Those simple sounds, that to the heart A soothing influence impart, And full on every sense convey Th’ impression of a summer’s day. A cot, with clustering ivy crown’d, Smil’d from a gently sloping mound, Whose sunny banks, profusely gay, Gave to the view, in proud display, The many colour’d buds of May; Flowers, that _spontaneous_ fringe the brink Of sinuous Tame, and bend to drink. My native River! at thy name What mix’d emotions thrill my frame! Through the dim vista of past years, How shadowy soft thy scene appears! With earliest recollections twin’d, To thee still fondly turns my mind; While Memory paints with faithful force The grace of thy meandering course ’Neath bending boughs, whose mingling shade Now hid, and now thy stream betray’d.— Bright—though long distant from my view— Rise all thy magic charms anew; And on thy calm and shallowy shore Again, in Fancy’s eye, I pore, The steps retrace, our infant feet So buoyant trod, and once more meet Each object in my wandering gaze That form’d the joys of “other days.” All, all return, and with them bring The “life of life,” its vivid spring. The sun is bright, the flowers re-bloom, Cold friends are kind, kind e’en the tomb: For one brief moment ’tis forgot There once _were_ those, who now _are not_. Eyes beam, and hearts as fondly beat, Voices their wonted tones repeat— But ’tis on Fancy’s ear alone— I wake, alas! and _all are gone_! Yet, Tame, the theme of childish praise, For thee were fram’d my earliest lays; Thy banks of all were deem’d the pride, Thy flowers, by none to be outvied. Those days are past—and sad I view The time I bade thee, Tame, adieu: Those days are gone, and I have seen Full many a river’s margent green; Full many a bursting bud display The rich luxuriance of May— But loveliest _still_ thy flowers I deem, And dearest thou, my native stream! Thus clings around our early joys A mystic charm no time destroys, Endearing recollections more, When all of _real_ joy is o’er.