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Literary
June 21, 1845
Republican Herald
Providence, Providence County, Rhode Island
What is this article about?
A poem titled 'OLD IMPRESSIONS' where an exile rejects the beauty of the new land, yearning for the familiar churchyard, village, native flowers, birds like the thrush and robin, and the autumnal decay of leaves in their homeland.
Clipping
OCR Quality
95%
Excellent
Full Text
OLD IMPRESSIONS.
Nay, tell me not, the exile said
You think this land as fair as ours:
That endless springs around us ope'd.
That blossoming rise on every hand :
O, give to me our country's flowers,
And give to me our native land.
Our church yard, with its old gray wall:
Our church, with its sweet Sabbath bell;
Our village field, so green and small:
The primrose in my native dell;
I see, I hear, I feel them all:
In memory know and love them well.
The bell bird. by the river heard—
The whip bird. which surprised I hear—
In me have powerful memories stirred
Of other scenes and strains more dear;
Of sweeter songs than these afford.
The thrush and blackbird warbling clear
The robin which I here behold
Most beautiful with breast of flame
No cottage enterer shyly bold.
No household bird in seasons drear.
Is wild. is silent; not the same
Babe-bearing bird of ancient fame:
Where is the strain I wont to hear.
The song of russet leaves and sere?
O, call it by some other name!
I'm tired of woods forever green:
I pine to see the leaves decay:
To see them, as our own are seen.
Turn crimson, orange, russet. grey;
To see them, as I've seen them oft,
By tempest torn and whirled aloft;
Or. on some bland autumnal day.
A golden season still and soft,
In woodland walk, in garden croft
Die, silently, and drop away.
Nay, tell me not, the exile said
You think this land as fair as ours:
That endless springs around us ope'd.
That blossoming rise on every hand :
O, give to me our country's flowers,
And give to me our native land.
Our church yard, with its old gray wall:
Our church, with its sweet Sabbath bell;
Our village field, so green and small:
The primrose in my native dell;
I see, I hear, I feel them all:
In memory know and love them well.
The bell bird. by the river heard—
The whip bird. which surprised I hear—
In me have powerful memories stirred
Of other scenes and strains more dear;
Of sweeter songs than these afford.
The thrush and blackbird warbling clear
The robin which I here behold
Most beautiful with breast of flame
No cottage enterer shyly bold.
No household bird in seasons drear.
Is wild. is silent; not the same
Babe-bearing bird of ancient fame:
Where is the strain I wont to hear.
The song of russet leaves and sere?
O, call it by some other name!
I'm tired of woods forever green:
I pine to see the leaves decay:
To see them, as our own are seen.
Turn crimson, orange, russet. grey;
To see them, as I've seen them oft,
By tempest torn and whirled aloft;
Or. on some bland autumnal day.
A golden season still and soft,
In woodland walk, in garden croft
Die, silently, and drop away.
What sub-type of article is it?
Poem
What themes does it cover?
Nature
Seasonal Cycle
Patriotism
What keywords are associated?
Exile
Native Land
Nostalgia
Autumn Leaves
Village Church
Native Birds
Seasonal Decay
Literary Details
Title
Old Impressions.
Key Lines
Nay, Tell Me Not, The Exile Said
You Think This Land As Fair As Ours:
That Endless Springs Around Us Ope'd.
That Blossoming Rise On Every Hand :
O, Give To Me Our Country's Flowers,
And Give To Me Our Native Land.
Our Church Yard, With Its Old Gray Wall:
Our Church, With Its Sweet Sabbath Bell;
Our Village Field, So Green And Small:
The Primrose In My Native Dell;
I See, I Hear, I Feel Them All:
In Memory Know And Love Them Well.
O, Call It By Some Other Name!
I'm Tired Of Woods Forever Green:
I Pine To See The Leaves Decay:
To See Them, As Our Own Are Seen.
Turn Crimson, Orange, Russet. Grey;