OH! for my bright and faded hours
When life was like a summer stream,
On whose gay banks the virgin flowers
Blush'd in the morning's rosy beam;
Or danced upon the breeze that bare
Its store of rich perfume along,
While the wood-robin pour'd on air
The ravishing delights of song.
The sun look'd from his lofty cloud,
While flow'd its sparkling waters fair-
And went upon his pathway proud,
And threw a brighter lustre there;
And smiled upon the golden heaven,
And on the earth's sweet loveliness,
Where light, and joy, and song were given,
The glad and fairy scene to bless!
Ah! these were bright and joyous hours, When youth awoke from boyhood's dream,
To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers,
While young hope bask'd in morning's beam! And proffer'd thanks to heaven above,
While glow'd his fond and grateful breast,
Who spread for him that scene of love
And made him so supremely blest!
That scene of love! — where hath it
Where have its charms and beauty sped? My hours of youth, that o'er me shone→
Where have their light and splendour fled? Into the silent lapse of years
And I am left on earth to mourn:
And I am left to drop my tears
O'er memory's lone and icy urn!
Yet why pour forth the voice of wail
O'er feeling's blighted coronal?
Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail,
I shall be gather'd in my pall;
Oh, my dark hours on earth are few
My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven; —
And I shall soon bid life adieu,
To seek enduring joys in heaven!
As the tears of the even,
Illumined at day
By the sweet light of heaven,
Seem gems on each spray ;
So gladness to-morrow
Shall shine on thy brow,
The more bright for the sorrow
That darkens it now.
Yet if fortune, believe me,
Have evil in store,
Though each other deceive thee,
I'll love thee the more.
As ivy leaves cluster
More greenly and fair,
When winter winds bluster
Round trees that are bare.
THERE is a voice, I shall hear no more-
There are tones, whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odours of spring were they,-
Precious and rich-but they died away;
They came like peace to my heart and ear-
Never again will they murmur here;
They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.
There were eyes that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;
They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art ;
Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring
When birds in the vernal branches sing;
They were filled with love, that hath passed with them, And my lyre is breathing their requiem.
I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose :
And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain
With raptures, that never may dawn again;
Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed—
Alas! for the doom of the early dead!
Alas! for the clod that is resting now
On those slumbering eyes-on that faded brow;
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom--
For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb;
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone;
Alas for the hopes that with thee have died——
Oh loved one!-would I were by thy side!
Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm-
My arm embraceth thy graceful form;
I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom-thou art not here.
Oh! once the summer with thee was bright;
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.
There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest-
A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest of all things to heaven above.
Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
To that tranquil and solemn place of rest,
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast;
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid-
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid ;-
All that was lovely to me is there,
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!
[Written on a pane of glass in the house of a friend.]
As playful boys by ocean's side
Upon its margin trace,
Some frail memorial which the tide
Returning must efface;
Thus I upon this brittle glass
These tuneless verses scrawl,
That they, when I away shall pass,
May thought of me recall.
The waves that beat upon the strand
Wash out the schoolboy's line,
As soon some rude or careless hand
May shiver those of mine.
But though what I have written here
In thousand fragments part,
I trust my name will still be dear,
And treasured in the heart.
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