The Desolation of Eyam :: :: University of Virginia Library

Nay, tell me not of tears and sighs,
I will, that grief mar not delight;
For once, thy lyre's glad tones shall rise,
And joy shall be our word to-night.
And taste, and wit, and song shall shower
A radiance o'er our parting hour.

I know that they, when last we met,
Who smiled amongst us, are not here;
I know that grief has been, but yet—
I ban the sigh, debar the tear;
To weave the parting hour a braid,
We'll choose the sunshine, not the shade.

Turn to the past, it will not seem
All desert, or delusive ray;
Though many a flower, and many a beam
Have passed to darkness and decay,
A splendour shines—an amaranth flower
Has bloomed through life's most wintry hour.

I know that what we love the most
Fades fleetest from before our eyes;
The richest gems are soonest lost;
And death takes first whom best we prize.
Yet, not for this shall sorrow gloom,
For flowers will flourish o'er a tomb.

Think of thy youth, the light that came
In vision for thy future day;
Thy dream of song; thy hope of fame;
And the bright charm of many a lay;
And how thy youthful fancy wove
An iris-woof of light and love.

Unfolding years may prove how vain
The hopes we nurture in our youth;
But, fleeting some—do none remain
To prove our soul's aspiring, truth?—
Think of thy sweet harp's dearest tone
As it made Tasso's lay thine own.

For song has been a sacred fire
Within thy soul, unquenched, undimmed.
So we, to-night, will pledge thy lyre,
And joy's cup shall be fully brimmed;
For come what may of good or ill,
Thy lyre is thine, unchanging still.

So tell me not of tears and sighs,
I will, that grief mar not delight;
Our hearts shall withering care despise,
And joy our watchword be to-night.
And song, and taste, and wit shall shower
A radiance o'er our parting hour.

30th of 12th month.—