Recollections.

    Ye dear stars of the Bear, I did not think
    I should again be turning, as I used,
    To see you over father's garden shine,
    And from the windows talk with you again
    Of this old house, where as a child I dwelt,
    And where I saw the end of all my joys.
    What charming images, what fables, once,
    The sight of you created in my thought,
    And of the lights that bear you company!
    Silent upon the verdant clod I sat,
    My evening thus consuming, as I gazed
    Upon the heavens, and listened to the chant
    Of frogs that in the distant marshes croaked;
    While o'er the hedges, ditches, fire-flies roamed,
    And the green avenues and cypresses
    In yonder grove were murmuring to the wind;
    While in the house were heard, at intervals,
    The voices of the servants at their work.
    What thoughts immense in me the sight inspired
    Of that far sea, and of the mountains blue,
    That yonder I behold, and which I thought
    One day to cross, mysterious worlds and joys
    Mysterious in the future fancying!
    Of my hard fate unconscious, and how oft
    This sorrowful and barren life of mine
    I willingly would have for death exchanged!

    Nor did my heart e'er tell me, I should be
    Condemned the flower of my youth to spend
    In this wild native region, and amongst
    A wretched, clownish crew, to whom the names
    Of wisdom, learning, are but empty sounds,
    Or arguments of laughter and of scorn;
    Who hate, avoid me; not from envy, no;
    For they do not esteem me better than
    Themselves, but fancy that I, in my heart,
    That feeling cherish; though I strive, indeed,
    No token of such feeling to display.
    And here I pass my years, abandoned, lost,
    Of love deprived, of life; and rendered fierce,
    'Mid such a crowd of evil-minded ones,
    My pity and my courtesy I lose,
    And I become a scorner of my race,
    By such a herd surrounded; meanwhile, fly
    The precious hours of youth, more precious far
    Than fame, or laurel, or the light of day,
    Or breath of life: thus uselessly, without
    One joy, I lose thee, in this rough abode,
    Whose only guests are care and suffering,
    O thou, the only flower of barren life!

    The wind now from the tower of the town
    The deep sound of the bell is bringing. Oh,
    What comfort was that sound to me, a child,
    When in my dark and silent room I lay,
    Besieged by terrors, longing for the dawn!
    Whate'er I see or hear, recalls to mind
    Some vivid image, recollection sweet;
    Sweet in itself, but O how bitter made
    By painful sense of present suffering,
    By idle longing for the past, though sad,
    And by the still recurring thought, "I was"!
    Yon gallery that looks upon the west;
    Those frescoed walls, these painted herds, the sun
    Just rising o'er the solitary plain,
    My idle hours with thousand pleasures filled,
    While busy Fancy, at my side, still spread
    Her bright illusions, wheresoe'er I went.
    In these old halls, when gleamed the snow without,
    And round these ample windows howled the wind,
    My sports resounded, and my merry words,
    In those bright days, when all the mysteries
    And miseries of things an aspect wear,
    So full of sweetness; when the ardent youth
    Sees in his untried life a world of charms,
    And, like an unexperienced lover, dotes
    On heavenly beauty, creature of his dreams!

    O hopes, illusions of my early days! -
    Of you I still must speak, to you return;
    For neither flight of time, nor change of thoughts,
    Or feelings, can efface you from my mind.
    Full well I know that honor and renown
    Are phantoms; pleasures but an idle dream;
    That life, a useless misery, has not
    One solid fruit to show; and though my days
    Are empty, wearisome, my mortal state
    Obscure and desolate, I clearly see
    That Fortune robs me but of little. Yet,
    Alas! as often as I dwell on you,
    Ye ancient hopes, and youthful fancy's dreams,
    And then look at the blank reality,
    A life of ennui and of wretchedness;
    And think, that of so vast a fund of hope,
    Death is, to-day, the only relic left,
    I feel oppressed at heart, I feel myself
    Of every comfort utterly bereft.
    And when the death, that I have long invoked,
    Shall be at hand, the end be reached of all
    My sufferings; when this vale of tears shall be
    To me a stranger, and the future fade,
    Fade from sight forever; even then, shall I
    Recall you; and your images will make
    Me sigh; the thought of having lived in vain,
    Will then intrude, with bitterness to taint
    The sweetness of that day of destiny.

    Nay, in the first tumultuous days of youth,
    With all its joys, desires, and sufferings,
    I often called on death, and long would sit
    By yonder fountain, longing, in its waves
    To put an end alike to hope and grief.
    And afterwards, by lingering sickness brought
    Unto the borders of the grave, I wept
    O'er my lost youth, the flower of my days,
    So prematurely fading; often, too,
    At late hours sitting on my conscious bed,
    Composing, by the dim light of the lamp,
    I with the silence and the night would moan
    O'er my departing soul, and to myself
    In languid tones would sing my funeral-song.

    Who can remember you without a sigh,
    First entrance into manhood, O ye days
    Bewitching, inexpressible, when first
    On the enchanted mortal smiles the maid,
    And all things round in emulation smile;
    And envy holds its peace, not yet awake,
    Or else in a benignant mood; and when,
    - O marvel rare! - the world a helping hand
    To him extends, his faults excuses, greets
    His entrance into life, with bows and smiles
    Acknowledges his claims to its respect?
    O fleeting days! How like the lightning's flash,
    They vanish! And what mortal can escape
    Unhappiness, who has already passed
    That golden period, his own good time,
    That comes, alas, so soon to disappear?

    And thou, Nerina, does not every spot
    Thy memory recall? And couldst thou e'er
    Be absent from my thought? Where art thou gone,
    That here I find the memory alone,
    Of thee, my sweet one? Thee thy native place
    Beholds no more; that window, whence thou oft
    Wouldst talk with me, which sadly now reflects
    The light of yonder stars, is desolate.
    Where art thou, that I can no longer hear
    Thy gentle voice, as in those days of old,
    When every faintest accent from thy lips
    Was wont to turn me pale? Those days have gone.
    They have been, my sweet love! And thou with them
    Hast passed. To others now it is assigned
    To journey to and fro upon the earth,
    And others dwell amid these fragrant hills.
    How quickly thou hast passed! Thy life was like
    A dream. While dancing there, joy on thy brow
    Resplendent shone, anticipations bright
    Shone in thy eyes, the light of youth, when Fate
    Extinguished them, and thou didst prostrate lie.
    Nerina, in my heart the old love reigns.
    If I at times still go unto some feast,
    Or social gathering, unto myself
    I say: "Nerina, thou no more to feast
    Dost go, nor for the ball thyself adorn."
    If May returns, when lovers offerings
    Of flowers and of songs to maidens bring,
    I say: "Nerina mine, to thee spring ne'er
    Returns, and love no more its tribute brings."
    Each pleasant day, each flowery field that I
    Behold, each pleasure that I taste, the thought
    Suggest: "Nerina pleasure knows no more,
    The face of heaven and earth no more beholds."
    Ah, thou hast passed, for whom I ever sigh!
    Hast passed; and still the memory of thee
    Remains, and with each thought and fancy blends
    Each varying emotion of the heart;
    And will remain, so bitter, yet so sweet!