Once again,- but how chang'd since my wand'rings began- <br />I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann, <br />And the pines of Clanbrasil resound to the roar <br />That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. <br />Alas! My poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn! <br />With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return? <br />Can I live the dear life of delusion again, <br />That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain? <br /> <br />It was then that around me, though poor and unknown, <br />High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown; <br />The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew, <br />The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. <br />I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire <br />At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of their lyre: <br />To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear, <br />But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear. <br /> <br />But was she, too, a phantom, the maid who stood by, <br />And listed my lay, while she turn?d from mine eye? <br />Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view, <br />Then dispers'd in the sunbeam, or melted to dew? <br />Oh! Would it had been so,- O would that her eye <br />Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky, <br />And her voice, that was moulded to melody's thrill <br />Had been but a zephyr that sigh'd and was still. <br /> <br />Oh! would it had been so,- not then this poor heart <br />Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to part; <br />To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care, <br />While I toil'd for the wealth I had no one to share. <br />Not then had I said, when life's summer was done, <br />And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on, <br />'Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your train, <br />And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again.'<br /><br />Sir Walter Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-return-to-ulster/
