THE RETURN. Motionless there I linger long, Sinkings of heart, sighs, smiles, and tears.-Wilson. approached It was a lovely evening in June, when Valentine the neighbourhood of after an absence of fifteen years from his native land. The scenery through which his route lay would have rivetted the eye of a mere stranger, not from its presenting grand or romantic, or even picturesque views, but from its completely national character, from its being a style of scenery found only in England. The far-spreading landscape was diversified on all sides by green and gentle acclivities, that varied without breaking its even character,— knolls covered or crowned with every variety of forest tree,-meadows of "living green," speckled over with sheep and cattle, and divided from each other by Nature's own boundaries, high thick hawthorn hedges, here and there gentlemen's seats, with their stately parks and hereditary oaks, harmonizing, not contrasting, with the surrounding objects, at intervals, here and there, a comfortable farmhouse, with its gardens, barns, orchards, and groups of well-built corn or hay ricks, perfect models of domestic plenty and hearty enjoyment,-gray hamlets, pressing forth from embosoming trees, and disclosing on a nearer view bright-windowed cottages, each with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky. These were a few of the individual features of the scenery in question. Its peculiar charm, however, was to be found in its fertility and unbroken extent. Every step evidenced the presence of man-his peaceful industry-his plentiful reward; and standing on a little eminence, the eye of the traveller wandered over a sea (if such an expression may be permitted) of corn fields, meadows, orchards, and groves, intersected by streams, and relieved by villas and hamlets, encountering no obstruction to its vision, till checked by the bright blue verge of the horizon Land's utmost verge, horizon's glorious span. Valentine regarded not these objects with the enthusiasm of a poet, a painter, or a patriot, but, with the affectionate delight of one who, after fifteen years of worldly cares and wanderings, revisits the scene of early friends and youthful pleasures. As he approached the place of his destination, and saw the little hamlet of with its simple church "half hidden by the yew tree's shade," and heard its wellremembered bells burst forth into a merry chime, and recognized the dwelling of his early friend, to see whom he was now anxiously journeying, pleasure became pain from its very intensity. He checked his horse, which he had hitherto urged to its utmost speed,-fear and hope alternated in his breast,-visions of pleasure gave way to undefined apprehensions of coming evil,-and, with a revulsion of feeling intelligible to all who have been similarly circumstanced, he dreaded the meeting which an hour before he had eagerly desired. Ay, there was the old comfortable-looking mansion-rather older, but still as comfort able-looking as ever,-the library bay-window still bosomed in ivythe same ivy too, the yew-tree porch, in which he and his friend had spent so many long summer evenings, laying plans for the future-that future which had now become the past, the rookery,—the antique dove-cot, the fields wherein they had coursed,-the brook in which they had angled,-every object on the domain was familiar and unchanged; but the owner, the friend, Percival,—would he be unchanged too? Correspondence had ceased for many years, would he now resent it? He knew not of his coming,-how would he receive him? Might he not have forgotten the friend of early life? or, worse still, might he not be dead? These, and a thousand similar thoughts, harassed the mind of Valentine; and not until he had entered the dwelling, and received the warm and oft-repeated welcomes of his friend, did he again dare to resume his former happy feelings. 66 "In A powerful writer has declared, that no two friends, who have been long separated, ever meet again the same friends they parted. spite of every thing," says he, new events have passed over either head; new thoughts, new feelings, have left their traces in either bosom: the sorrows of one have not been sympathized with; the joys of the other have not been partaken; the mind of each has been occupied, in by far the greater part of its depth, with things of which the other has no knowledge, and can form no guess." Valentine and Percival formed another proof of the correctness of this remark. One, without either friends or fortune, had been early thrown upon the world, to seek both for himself. Exposed to the vicissitudes of climate and the uncertainties of fortune, the keen competitions of worldly men and worldly interests, with few to love him, and fewer still to love,—Valentine, from the gay thoughtless youth, who fifteen years before had no occupation more serious than to provide pleasure for the passing day, and knowing no sorrow more severe than to be disappointed in that pleasure, had changed into the man of action, enterprize, and decisionof keen sense and prudence,-who, with tamed thoughts and sobered feelings, was rarely surprized into strong emotion, whether of pain or pleasure. Percival, on the other hand, possessing naturally a more refined and reflective mind, graver habits, and deeper, though less manifested, feelings, had passed the period of separation in seclusion, diversified only by rural pursuits and domestic or literary pleasures. He was some years older than his friend; but it was not Time alone that had sprinkled his hair with early gray, and imparted to his countenance a pale, yet melancholy placidity, which led strangers to suppose him long past his prime. Sorrow had been busy in his heart and home; and though the precise nature of that sorrow was rather guessed than known, the deep and blasting effects which it had produced, proved it to have been of neither a slight nor common nature. But, on one point, both remained unchanged;-they still felt for each other the strong regard of early years; and, when once more met amongst the scenes of their former intercourse, the past, with its many and mournful changes, was forgotten, and they again "walked together as friends." Both had passed that period when the heart yields easily to the influence of new attachments ;- -sorrow had blunted the sensibilities of the one, and the world those of the other;-but neither sorrow nor the world had destroyed the attachment formed under happier auspices. It had never, even during the period of apparent estrangement, passed from the heart. Each could have said to the other— Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there: It trembled, but it never passed away. A SERENADE. THE flowret may despise the bud Though I have walk'd the festive hall, And heard her thrilling accents fall Deem not I left my treasure there-- The love awoke by dance and song, "Twas deeper passion-born of thought, In reason, as in fancy wrought- SONG. THERE stood a bright tear in the fair maiden's eye: Oh, was it of sorrow or was it of joy? The youth whom she loved had returned from the wars, His name gemmed with glory-his brow gemmed with scars; In the lists of the brave, what name ranked so high? Then why stood the tear in the fair maiden's eye? Oh, the tear was of sorrow unblended with joy, When she thought of the feelings that time could destroy, All gaily he came and though now on his form 'Twas the bright tear of joy in the maiden's eye shone ! |