| |
| “MY 1 early day, what joys were thine!” | |
| And yet thou hadst some sorrows too; | |
| A varied wreath they join’d to twine, | |
| And ’midst it hope her blossoms threw— | |
| Borne on the breeze, her rosy kiss | 5 |
| Bade pleasure sojourn there, | |
| Love came to tune her lute of bliss, | |
| And requiems sung to care. | |
| |
| Dear days of peace! ah, whither fled? | |
| O’er my young bower ye did but hover, | 10 |
| Then, like the dove, your pinions spread, | |
| And sought your home—the skies, forever! | |
| Your morning gales my path beguiled, | |
| Nor whisper’d they should die so soon; | |
| Nor each bright bud that round it smiled, | 15 |
| Dream of departing ere ’t was noon. | |
| |
| But those are hush’d, and these are gone, | |
| And sadness rules the blighted scene; | |
| I wander downcast and alone, | |
| Scarce mindful they have ever been! | 20 |
| So chill, time’s marble foot hath pass’d | |
| Through childhood’s dimpled vale, | |
| No herb can bloom, no verdure last, | |
| To cheer life’s evening pale. | |
| |
| Sweet hours! with golden pastimes fraught, | 25 |
| On you I turn my streaming eye | |
| And think—and in that racking thought, | |
| My heart—my gushing heart would die. | |
| Ye conjure up each once-loved form, | |
| Each well-remember’d voice awaken— | 30 |
| Then show me how they met the storm, | |
| And sunk, on joy’s bright shore forsaken. | |
| |
| Ne’er shall they mount with me again, | |
| I loved so well—yon sunny steep; | |
| One stroke hath dash’d our hands in twain, | 35 |
| And ’neath its broomwood hedge they sleep. | |
| His pang descends not to their bed, | |
| Who sickens round the scene, | |
| To know life’s infant flowers are dead, | |
| Its riper thorns yet green. | 40 |
| |
| On wing more swift than morning lark, | |
| My faded years unloved are borne;— | |
| Where wilt thou land me, oh my bark, | |
| If not to youth’s dear port we turn? | |
| Must man o’erpass the beckoning vale, | 45 |
| And all its winning sweets renounce?— | |
| And all its winning sweets renounce?— | |
| He freights his bark but once! | |
| |
| Oh tell me, “step-dame nature,” tell, | |
| Where shall thy wayward child abide, | 50 |
| On what far strand his spirit dwell, | |
| When life has spent its struggling tide? | |
| Shall hope no more her taper mourn, | |
| Quench’d in the tear that sorrow sends; | |
| Nor from the feast misfortune spurn | 55 |
| The wishful wretch that o’er it bends? | |
| |
| No more shall folly’s yellow wing | |
| O’er pleasure’s path shed sickly dews? | |
| Nor youth’s delightful day of spring | |
| ’Mid grief’s dim cloud its lustre lose? | 60 |
| Say—ne’er shall wealth’s gay-spangled plume | |
| Deceive, as when it erst was mine? | |
| Nor love turn shuddering from the tomb; | |
| Nor joy at her short reign repine? | |
| |
| And when the grave its grassy veil | 65 |
| Between these eyes and life shall spread, | |
| Shall memory blight the primrose pale, | |
| That kindly strives to shade my bed? | |
| Or shall the form that slumbers there, | |
| No more of pain nor death endure? | 70 |
| Oh, pour thine answer on my ear— | |
| “I ’ve told thee—told thee, child—NO MORE!” | |
