Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our play To chat at home the vacant hour away. Many's the time I' we scamper'd in the glade, To ask the promised ditty from the maid, Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing, While we around her form'd a little ring: She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed, Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, Or little children murder'd as they slept; While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. Poor simple wights, ah! little did we ween The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene! Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know This world's a world of weeping and of woe! Beloved moment! then 'twas first I caught The first foundation of romantic thought! Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear. Soon stored with much of legendary lore, The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more. Far from the scene of gaiety and noise, Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, I hied me to the thick overarching shade, And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, The days of wild romance antique I'd scan; Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. * * * * * PART II. There are who think that Childhood does not share With age the cup, the bitter cup, of care: Alas! they know not this unhappy truth, That every age, and rank, is born to ruth. From the first dawn of reason in the mind, Man is foredoomed the thorns of grief to find; At every step has farther cause to know The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe. Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caught With some new object for romantic thought, The impression of the moment quickly flies, And with the morrow every sorrow dies. How different manhood!--then does Thought's control Sink every pang still deeper in the soul; Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart Becomes a painful resident in the heart; And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. Then, as each long known friend is summon'd hence, We feel a void no joy can recompense, And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb, Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom.