Where in the busy scene, by peace unbless'd, Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest? A lonely mariner on the stormy main, Without a hope the calms of peace to gain; Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore, When shall his spirit rest to toil no more? Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave The sandy surface of his unwept grave. Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, Serenest season of perpetual calms,— Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease,— And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles, But each new object brings attendant smiles; When future evils never haunt the sight, But all is pregnant with unmix'd delight; To thee I turn from riot and from noise, Turn to partake of more congenial joys.

'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er, What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were In various postures scattering o'er the green! Some shoot the marble, others join the chase seen, Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race; While others, seated on the dappled grass, With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, A band of soldiers oft with pride we march'd; For banners to a tall ash we did bind Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind; And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, And guns and spears we made of brittle reed; Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown, We storm'd some ruin'd pigsty for a town.

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont To set her wheel before the cottage front, And o'er her spectacles would often peer, To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round, With its beloved monotony of sound. When tired with play, we'd set us by her side (For out of school she never knew to chide), And wonder at her skill—well known to fame— For who could match in spinning with the dame? Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride To strangers, still her thriftness testified; Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth, How't was her spinning manufactured cloth.

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 

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