Генри Тейлор (Henry Taylor)

St. Helen’s-Auckland

I WANDER o’er each well-known field
  My boyhood’s home in view,
And thoughts that were as fountains sealed
  Are welling forth anew.

The ancient house, the aged trees,
  They bring again to light
The years that like a summer’s breeze
  Were trackless in their flight.

How much is changed of what I see,
  How much more changed am I,
And yet how much is left,—to me
  How is the distant nigh!

The walks are overgrown and wild,
  The terrace flags are green,—
But I am once again a child,
  I am what I have been.

The sounds that round about me rise
  Are what none other hears;
I see what meets no other eyes,
  Though mine are dim with tears,—

The breaking of the summer’s morn,
  The tinge on house and tree,
The billowy clouds,—the beauty born
  Of that celestial sea,

The freshness of the faëry land
  Lit by the golden gleam,—
It is my youth that where I stand
  Surrounds me like a dream.

Alas! the real never lent
  Those tints, too bright to last;
They fade, and bid me rest content
  And let the past be past.

The wave that dances to the breast
  Of earth can ne’er be stayed;
The star that glitters in the crest
  Of morning needs must fade.

But there shall flow another tide,
  So let me hope, and far
Over the outstretched waters wide
  Shall shine another star.

In every change of man’s estate
  Are lights and guides allowed;
The fiery pillar will not wait,
  But, parting, sends the cloud.

Nor mourn I the less manly part	
  Of life to leave behind;
My loss is but the lighter heart,
  My gain the graver mind.

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