Attempt > Volume 1 and Select writings

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THE ATTEMPT
Once more he’s nearing the home of his childhood,
Ancient and grey with its ivy-grown walls ;
Once more he’s treading the dearly-loved wild wood,
List’ning once more to the blackbird’s soft calls.
In that bright vision of England’s old oaken glades,
Are the leaves yellow, and shrivelled, and dead 1
And the sweet flowers that bloom in the dingle shades,
Are they all faded, their perfumes all fled 1
No ! in that greenwood the glad golden sunlight
Streams o’er the foliage unwithered and gay;
Fresh in their beauty are smiling those blossoms bright,
Op’ning their buds to the soft eye of day.
All is as summer-like—lovely and smiling,
As when, young in hope, he left his loved home,
Dazzled by visions of glory beguiling,
That lured him afar o’er the wide world to roam.
Soldier, sleep on ! for the mom will awake thee,
The call of the bugle will rouse thee from sleep;
Then that sweet vision of home will forsake thee,
So, while thou can’st, in that fairyland keep.
But, though the dream may have faded and vanished,
Still in thy heart thou as treasure wilt hold
Mem’ries of pleasures which stern war has banished—
Treasures to thee far more precious than gold.
Sleep then—and dream of thy childhood’s loved bowers,
Dream of the mountain, the forest, the glen;
And hope’s radiant star, in thy sorrowful hours,
Shall brighten thy path till thou see’st them again.
Masalta.