It is the same clear dazzling scene;--
Perhaps the grass is scarce as green;
Perhaps the river's troubled voice
Doth not so plainly say--"Rejoice."
Yet Nature surely never ranges,
Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown;--
But, ever joyful, merely changes
The primrose for the thistle-down.
'Tis _we_ alone who, waxing old,
Look on her with an aspect cold,
Dissolve her in our burning tears,
Or clothe her with the mists of years!
Then, why should not the grass be green?
And why should not the river's song
Be merry,--as they both have been
When I was here an urchin strong?
Ah, true--too true! I see the sun
Through thirty winter years hath run.
For grave eyes, mirrored in the brook,
Usurp the urchin's laughing look!
So be it! I have lost,--and won!
For, once, the past was poor to me,--
The future dim: and though the sun
Shed life and strength, and I was free,
I _felt_ not--_knew_ no grateful pleasure:
All seemed but as the common measure:
But NOW--the experienced spirit old
Turns all the leaden past to gold.
* * * * *
FRENCH MANNERS.
(The Duchess of Abrantes, in her recently published Memoirs, gives a
striking picture of the difference in the fashions and habits of living
which has resulted from the old French Revolution.
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