Prosodia

Reflections Irregular by John Rollin Ridge I cast a backward look—how changed The scenes of other days! I walk, a wearied man, estranged From youth’s delightful ways. There in the distance rolleth yet That stream whose waves my Boyish bosom oft has met, When pleasure lit mine eye. It rolleth yet, as clear, as bold, As pure as it did then; But I have grown in youth-time old, And, mixing now with men, My sobered eye must not attend To that sweet stream, my early friend! The music of its waters clear Must now but seldom reach my ear, But murmur still now carelessly To every heedless passer-by. How often o’er its rugged cliffs I’ve strayed, And gaily listened, as its billows played Such deep, low music at their base— And then such brightening thoughts would trace Upon the tablet of my mind! Alas, those days have run their race, Their joys I nowhere now can find. I have no time to think Of climbing Glory’s sunny mount I have no time to drink At Learning’s bubbling fount! Now corn and potatoes call me From s