ORIGINAL POETRY. MY NATIVE TOWN.

New Zealander, Volume 7, Issue 561, 30 August 1851, Page 3

ORIGINAL POETRY. MY NATIVE TOWN.

It is a right quaint and and an ancient place, Where no stone that meets the eye, But has its own eloquent tale to tell, Of statlier days gone by. In its high cathedral choir in their rest Do the mitred abbots lie, And on carved tombs are the cross-sworn knights, With hands claspen rev'rently; While here and there, like a lily between, Some ladie of lofty degree is seen. The bells used to ring in the buttress'd tower, When I as a child past by, And they seemed to me to say wondrous things, All up in the air so high. And I knew each street in that ancient town, I knew, and I loved them well— Alas! that they should be still unchang'd, Whilst I such a change can tell, Alas! that the bells should ring out so clear In the sweet noon day time, and I not hear. A sunnier heaven smiles on me now, And uncheck'd may roam mine eye, O'er rippling waters, and emerald shores, And banks where no spring can die. But I look back with love to that fine old town Where my happy childhood pass'd, And I grieve to think that mine eye has gaz'd On those ancient streets its last. I envy not those, whoever they be, Who cannot thus think, and feel with me. Our native Town! oh it thrills to each heart, Though it may not find a tongue, Till some careless finger shall touch the string For so long untun'd— unstrung. Then bursting forth from the sin burden'd soul, Come thoughts that for years have slept, And hard hearts mourn that have never so mourn'd, Eyes weep that have never wept. Full many a year shall have come, and flown, 'Ere I cease to think of my native Town. St. George, Auckland, August 26th, 1851.