 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
THE OTHER DAY.
It seems, love, but the other day
Since thou and I were young together;
And yet we've trod a toilsome way,
And wrestled oft with stormy weather;
I see thee in thy spring of years,
Ere cheek or curl had known decay;
And there's a music in mine ears,
As sweet as heard the other day!
Since thou and I were young together;
And yet we've trod a toilsome way,
And wrestled oft with stormy weather;
I see thee in thy spring of years,
Ere cheek or curl had known decay;
And there's a music in mine ears,
As sweet as heard the other day!
Affection like a rainbow bends
Above the past, to glad my gaze,
And something still of beauty lends
To memory's dream of other days;
Within my heart there seems to beat
That lighter, happier heart of youth,
When looks were kind, and lips were sweet,
And love's world seemed a world of truth.
Above the past, to glad my gaze,
And something still of beauty lends
To memory's dream of other days;
Within my heart there seems to beat
That lighter, happier heart of youth,
When looks were kind, and lips were sweet,
And love's world seemed a world of truth.
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Within this inner heart of mine
A thousand golden fancies throng,
And whispers of a time divine
Appeal with half-forgotten tongue:
I know, I feel, 'tis but a dream,
That thou art old and I am grey,
And that, however brief it seem,
We are not as the other day.
A thousand golden fancies throng,
And whispers of a time divine
Appeal with half-forgotten tongue:
I know, I feel, 'tis but a dream,
That thou art old and I am grey,
And that, however brief it seem,
We are not as the other day.
Not as the other day—when flowers
Shook fragrance on our joyous track;
When Love could never count the hours,
And Hope ne'er dreamt of looking back:
When, if the world had been our own,
We thought how changed should be its state,—
Then every cot should be a throne,
The poor as happy as the great!—
Shook fragrance on our joyous track;
When Love could never count the hours,
And Hope ne'er dreamt of looking back:
When, if the world had been our own,
We thought how changed should be its state,—
Then every cot should be a throne,
The poor as happy as the great!—
When we'd that scheme which Love imparts,
That chain all interests to bind—
The fellowship of human hearts,
The federation of mankind!
And though with us time travels on,
Still relics of our youth remain,
As some flowers, when their spring is gone,
Yet late in autumn bloom again.
That chain all interests to bind—
The fellowship of human hearts,
The federation of mankind!
And though with us time travels on,
Still relics of our youth remain,
As some flowers, when their spring is gone,
Yet late in autumn bloom again.
Alas! 'mid worldly things and men,
Love's hard to caution or convince;
And hopes, which were but fables then,
Have left with us their moral since;
The twilight of the memory cheers
The soul with many a star sublime,
And still the mists of other years
Hang dew-drops on the leaves of Time.
Love's hard to caution or convince;
And hopes, which were but fables then,
Have left with us their moral since;
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The soul with many a star sublime,
And still the mists of other years
Hang dew-drops on the leaves of Time.
For what was then obscure and far
Hath grown more radiant to our eyes,
Although the promised, hoped-for star
Of social love hath yet to rise.
Still foot by foot the world is crost—
Still onward, though it slow appear:
Who knows how slight a balance lost
Might cast the bright sun from its sphere!
Hath grown more radiant to our eyes,
Although the promised, hoped-for star
Of social love hath yet to rise.
Still foot by foot the world is crost—
Still onward, though it slow appear:
Who knows how slight a balance lost
Might cast the bright sun from its sphere!
All time is lost in littleness!
All time, alas! if rightly shown,
Is but a shadow, more or less,
Upon life's lowly dial thrown.
The greatest pleasures, greatest grief,
Can never bear the test of years:
The pleasures vanish leaf by leaf,
The sorrow wastes away in tears.
All time, alas! if rightly shown,
Is but a shadow, more or less,
Upon life's lowly dial thrown.
The greatest pleasures, greatest grief,
Can never bear the test of years:
The pleasures vanish leaf by leaf,
The sorrow wastes away in tears.
Then, though it seem a trifling space
Since youth, and mirth, and hope were ours,
Yet those who love us most may trace
The hand of age amid our flowers.
Thus day by day life's ages grow;
The sands which hourly fall and climb
Mark centuries in their ceaseless flow,
And cast the destinies of Time!
Since youth, and mirth, and hope were ours,
Yet those who love us most may trace
The hand of age amid our flowers.
Thus day by day life's ages grow;
The sands which hourly fall and climb
Mark centuries in their ceaseless flow,
And cast the destinies of Time!
| Dryburgh Abbey and other poems | |