The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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MEMORY. |
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
266
MEMORY.
There are moments in life which we cannot forget,
Which for ever in memory's brightness shine on.
Though they seem to have been but to teach us regret,
And to sadden our hearts when their beauty is gone.
But still they are fountains of blessing that flow,
Like the spring in the desert, to freshen our path;
They are streamlets of peace in this valley of woe
When the flowers of gladness are blighted in wrath.
Which for ever in memory's brightness shine on.
Though they seem to have been but to teach us regret,
And to sadden our hearts when their beauty is gone.
But still they are fountains of blessing that flow,
Like the spring in the desert, to freshen our path;
They are streamlets of peace in this valley of woe
When the flowers of gladness are blighted in wrath.
There are joys over which the fond spirit hath sighed,
And in bitterness found that its sighs were in vain;
As the roses of summer will bloom in their pride,
But to tell us how soon they will wither again.
And yet there are some which cannot be effaced,
Which in peace and in strife will for ever be dear,
And without them this life were a thorn-bearing waste,
Too dark for a smile, and too vain for a tear!
And in bitterness found that its sighs were in vain;
As the roses of summer will bloom in their pride,
But to tell us how soon they will wither again.
And yet there are some which cannot be effaced,
Which in peace and in strife will for ever be dear,
And without them this life were a thorn-bearing waste,
Too dark for a smile, and too vain for a tear!
It is said that the nightingale cannot forget
The spot whence her wild wing first bore her away,
But when evening draws near she will warble there yet,
And more soft is her note and more tender her lay.
She will love not the valley and seek not the hill,
And though she may wander, it will not be long,
For when spring fades at last she is singing there still,
Till her death-note is breathed in the birthplace of song.
The spot whence her wild wing first bore her away,
But when evening draws near she will warble there yet,
And more soft is her note and more tender her lay.
She will love not the valley and seek not the hill,
And though she may wander, it will not be long,
For when spring fades at last she is singing there still,
Till her death-note is breathed in the birthplace of song.
267
And the harp which the love-wing of feeling hath swept
Will memory waken and hallow its strain,
And to hearts that have mourned and to eyes that have wept,
The voice of its sweetness will not be in vain.
For in moments of suffering it whispers of peace,
Like music which none but the dying may hear,
As the song of the nightingale never will cease,
But will always be sweetest when darkness is near.
Will memory waken and hallow its strain,
And to hearts that have mourned and to eyes that have wept,
The voice of its sweetness will not be in vain.
For in moments of suffering it whispers of peace,
Like music which none but the dying may hear,
As the song of the nightingale never will cease,
But will always be sweetest when darkness is near.
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |