vault of night, Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. Here once again, remote from human noise, I sit me down to think of former joys; Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, And once again each infant walk explore, While as each grove and lawn I recognize, My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.

And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort To distant scenes, and picture, them to thought; Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy; Bless'd Memory, guide, with finger nicely true, Back to my youth my retrospective view; Recall with faithful vigour to my mind Each face familiar, each relation kind; And all the finer traits of them afford, Whose general outline in my heart is stored.

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, The village matron kept her little school, Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule; Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien; Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean; Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair, Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care; And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn, Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, A pair of spectacles their want supplies; These does she guard secure, in leathern case, From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.

Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain, The low vestibule of learning's fane; Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. Much did I grieve on that ill fated morn When I was first to school reluctant borne; Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd; And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, To my lone corner broken-hearted crept, And thought of tender home, where anger never kept.

But soon inured to alphabetic toils, Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles; First at the form, my task for ever true, A little favourite rapidly I grew: And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight; And as she gave my diligence its praise, Talk'd of the honours of my future days.

Oh! had the venerable matron thought Of all the ills by talent often brought; Could she have seen me when revolving years Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate Had been a lowlier, an unlettered state; Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life.

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