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HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.
How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea ; For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
And, as I watch the line of light, that plays Along the smooth wave toward the burning
west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think ’twould lead to some bright isle of rest.
THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.
As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
To that dear Isle 'twas leaving.
From all the links that bind us : So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us !
When, round the bowl, of vanished years
We talk, with joyous seeming,
So faint, so sad their beaming ;
Each early tie that twined us,
To those we've left behind us !
And, when in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting,
And nought but love is wanting ;
If Heaven had but assigned us,
With some we've left behind us !
As travellers oft look back at eve,
When eastward darkly going,
Still faint behind them glowing ;-
To gloom hath near consigned us,
Moore. THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more With treasured tales, and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here ! What secret charms this silent spot endear? Mark yon old mansion frowning through the
trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown
court, Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; When all things pleased, for life itself was new, And the heart promised what the fancy drew.
See, through the fractured pediment revealed, Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield,
The martin's old, hereditary nest,
As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call !
Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ;
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
As through the garden's desert paths I rove,
How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive
rhyme, The bark now silvered by the touch of Time; Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, Through sister elms that waved their summer
shade ; Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!
The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses
grey, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant feet across the lawn ; Unheard the shout that rent the noon-tide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care.
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished
here ; And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions and romantic dreams !
But hark! through those old firs, with sullen
swell, The church-clock strikes ! ye tender scenes,
farewell ! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.