To an Old Acquaintance

Oh say, does the cottage yet peer from the shadow
Of ancestral elms on the side of the hill? —
Its doorway of woodbine, that look'd to the meadow,
And welcomed the sun as a guest on the sill;
The April-winged martin, with garrulous laughter,
Is he there where the mosses were thatching the
And the dear little wren that crept under the rafter,
The earliest to come, and the latest to leave!
Oh say, is the hawthorn the hedgerow perfuming
Adown the old lane? are the willows still there,
Where briery thickets in springtime were blooming,
And breathing their life on the odorous air?
And runs yet the brook where the violets were weeping,
Where the white lily sat like a swan of the stream,
While under the laurel the shepherd-boy sleeping,
Saw only the glory of life in his dream!
Hath the reaper been there with his sickle relentless,
The stern reaper Death in the harvest of life!
Hath his foot crush'd the blossoms, till wither'd and scentless
They lay ere the frosts of the autumn were rife?
Ah yes, I can hear the sad villagers hymning
A requiem that swells from my heart on my ear,
And a gathering shadow of sorrow is dimming
Those scenes that must ever arise with a tear.