EYAM

FOR one short week I leave, with anxious heart,
 Source of my filial cares, the FULL OF DAYS;
 Lur'd by the promise of harmonic Art
 To breathe her Handel's soul-exalting lays. 
Pensive I trace the Derwent's amber wave,
 Foaming thro' sylvan banks, or view it lave
 The soft romantic vallies, high o'er-peer'd
 By hills, and rocks, in savage grandeur rear'd

Not two short miles from thee, — can I refrain
 Thy haunts, my native EYAM, long unseen? 
Thou, and thy lov'd Inhabitants again
 Shall meet my transient gaze. — Thy rocky screen,
 Thy airy cliffs I mount; and seek thy shade,
 Thy roofs, that brow the steep, romantic glade;
 But, while on me the eyes of Friendship glow,
 Swell my pain'd sighs, my tears spontaneous flow. 

In Scenes paternal, not beheld thro' years,
 Nor view'd, till now, but by a Father's side,
 Well might the tender tributary tears,
 From keen regrets of duteous fondness, glide. 
Its Pastor, to this Human-Flock no more
 Shall the long flight of future days restore;
 Distant he droops — and that once-gladdening eye
 Now languid gleams, e'en when his Friends are nigh. 

Thro' this known walk, where weedy gravel lies,
 Rough, and unsightly; — by the long coarse grass
 Of the once smooth, and vivid Green, with sighs,
 To the deserted Rectory I pass; —
 Stray thro' the darken'd chambers naked bound,
 Where Childhood's earliest, liveliest bliss I found. 
How chang'd, since erst, the lightsome walls beneath,
 The social joys did their warm comforts breathe! 

Ere yet I go, who may return no more,
 That sacred Pile, 'mid yonder shadowy trees,
 Let me revisit! — ancient, massy door,
 Thou gratest hoarse! — my vital spirits freeze
 Passing the vacant Pulpit to the space
 Where humble rails the decent Altar grace,
 And where my infant sister's ashes sleep,
 Whose loss I left the childish sport to weep. 

Now the low beams, with paper garlands hung,
 In memory of some village Youth, or Maid,
 Draw the soft tear, from thrill'd remembrance sprung,
 How oft my childhood mark'd that tribute paid. 
The gloves suspended by the garland's side,
 White as its snowy flowers, with ribbands tied;
 Dear Village! long these wreaths funereal spread,
 Simple memorials of thy early Dead! 

But, O! thou blank, and silent Pulpit! — thou
 That with a Father's precepts, just, and bland,
 Did'st win my ear, as Reason's strengthening glow
 Show'd their full value — now thou seem'st to stand
 Before my sad, suffus'd, and trembling gaze,
 The dreariest relic of departed days;
 Of eloquence paternal, nervous, clear,
 DIM APPARTITION THOU, — and bitter is my tear.