Wakefield. Poem by Fidelia S T Hill

I'll not forget thee Wakefield! times may change,
And I upon this earth a wanderer be,
But far or near, or wheresoe'er I range,
My heart in thought, will still return to thee;
Again in thought, thy wild-wood walks retrace,
Where I in 'pride of happy childwood' strayed,
Or pause in sadness, o'er the hallowed place,
Where the loved ashes of my sire are laid.
Gaze on his noble Church's splendid spire
In gothic grandeur frowning o'er the scene,
Or turning the loved Vicarage admire
Where those who now 'are not' full oft have been,
Hie to my little garden, once again,
Rich in its poppies bright, and yellow broom,
Then seek in haste, the narrow hawthorn lane,
Scent the sweet hay, and mark the hedge-rose bloom.
Dear cherished scenes, tho' strangely altered now,
Your sight reviving to my soul doth bring,
New life, and freshness, thus the leafless bough
Buds into foliage, at the breath of spring;
I'll not forget thee Wakefield; times may change
And I upon this earth a wanderer be
But far, or near, or wheresoe'er I range,
My heart in thought, will still return to thee.