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Itchin, when I behold
thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
On which the self-same tints still seem’d to rest,
Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain?
Is it—that many a summer’s day has past
Since, in life’s morn, I carolled on thy side?
Is it—that oft, since then, my heart has sighed,
As Youth, and Hope’s delusive gleams, flew fast?
Is it—that those, who circled on thy shore,
Companions of my youth, now meet no more?
Whate’er the cause, upon thy banks I bend,
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, |
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