Welcom’d the wild-bee home on weary wing,
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! 
How oft inscrib’d, with ’Friendship’s votive rhyme,
The bark now silver’d by the touch of Time;
Soar’d in the swing, half pleas’d and half afraid,
Thro’ sister elms that wav’d their summer-shade;
Or strew’d with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat! 
   Childhood’s lov’d group revisits every scene;
The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! 
Indulgent memory wakes, and lo, they live! 
Cloth’d with far softer hues than Light can give. 
Thou first, best friend that Heav’n assigns below,
To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know;
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm,
When nature fades, and life forgets to charm;
Thee would the Muse invoke!—­to thee belong
The sage’s precept, and the poet’s song. 
What soften’d views thy magic glass reveals,
When o’er the landscape Time’s meek twilight steals! 
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,
Long on the wave reflected lustres play;
Thy temper’d gleams of happiness resign’d
Glance on the darken’d mirror of the mind. 
   The School’s lone porch, with reverend mosses gray,
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,
Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn: 
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,
When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, [a]
Some little friendship form’d and cherish’d here! 
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems
With golden visions, and romantic dreams! 
   Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blaz’d
The Gipsy’s faggot—­there we stood and gaz’d;
Gaz’d on her sun-burnt face with silent awe,
Her tatter’d mantle, and her hood of straw;
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o’er;
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore,
Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred,
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed;
Whose dark eyes flash’d thro’ locks of blackest shade,
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay’d:—­
And heroes fled the Sibyl’s mutter’d call,
Whose elfin prowess scal’d the orchard-wall. 
As o’er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And trac’d the line of life with searching view,
How throbb’d my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears,
To learn the colour of my future years! 
   Ah, then, what honest triumph flush’d my breast! 
This truth once known—­To bless is to be blest! 
We led the bending beggar on his way,
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray)
Sooth’d the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. 
As in his scrip we dropt our little store,
And wept to think that little was no more,
He breath’d his prayer, “Long may such goodness live!”
’Twas all he gave, ’twas all he had to