The Traveller's Return

It was the glorious summer-time,
As on a hill I stood,
Amid a group of towering trees,
The patriarchs of the wood;
A lovely vale before me lay,
And on the golden air,
Crept the blue smoke in quiet trains
From roofs that clustered there.
I saw where, in my early years,
I passed the pleasant hours,
Beside the winding brook that still
Went prattling to its flowers;
And still, around my parent's home,
The slender poplars grew,
Whose glossy leaves were swayed and turned
By every wind that blew.
The clover, with its heavy bloom
Was tossing in the gale,
And the tall crowfoot's golden stars
Still sprinkled all the vale;
Young orchards on the sunny slope,
Tall woodlands on the height,
All in their freshest beauty rose
To my delighted sight.
The wild vine in the woody glen,
Swung o'er the sounding brook;
The clear-voiced wood-thrush sang all unseen
Within his leafy nook:
And as the evening sunlight fell,
Where beechen forests lie;
I watched the clouds on crimson wings,
Float softly through the sky.
All these are what they were when first
These pleasant hills I ranged;
But the faces that I knew before,
By time and toil are changed:
Where youth and bloom were on the cheek
And gladness on the brow,
I only meet the marks of care,
And pain, and sorrow now.