And, hark! those strains, how solemnly serene They fall, as from the skies—at distance fall— Again more loud—the halleluiahs swell; The newly risen catch the joyful sound; They glow, they burn; and now with one accord Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb Who bled for mortals. * * * * * Yet there is peace for man.—Yea, there is peace Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene; When from the crowd, and from the city far, Haply he may be set (in his late walk O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail, And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time Will waft him to repose, to deep repose, Far from the unquietness of life—from noise And tumult far—beyond the flying clouds, Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more. * * * * * 1 This Poem was begun either during the publication of Clifton Grove, or shortly afterwards, but never completed: some of the detached parts were among his latest productions. 2 The Author was then in an attorney's office. 3 Alluding to the first astronomical observations made by the Chaldean shepherds. CHILDHOOD.1 A POEM. PART I. Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet Our infant days, our infant joys, to greet; To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, The village churchyard, and the village green, The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn shade, The whitewashed cottage, where the woodbine grew, And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew! How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, To view the unclouded skies of former days! Beloved age of innocence and smiles, When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles. When the gay heart, to life's sweet dayspring true, Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. Bless'd Childhood, hail!—Thee simply will I sing, And from myself the artless picture bring; These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more, And every stump familiar to my sight Recalls some fond idea of delight. This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat; Here did I love at evening to retreat, And muse alone, till in the
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