Samuel Jackson Pratt (1749–1814)

SCENES of my boyish days,—yet scenes of woe

From cradled childhood up to manhood’s bloom,—

At thy approach why do my eyes o’erflow,

As if in grief to meet were still our doom?

Yet why, though half involved in shades of night

Dim through the river’s mist thy spire appears,

Impatient do I strain my aching sight,

Eager to own each object through my tears?

And as thy well-remembered bridge I gain,

And draw more near, alas! my natal earth,

Though faster fall the drops, though sharp the pain,

I hail my birthplace, though I weep my birth.

Ah, tender tears, which tender thoughts impart,

And leave no room for malice in my heart!