 | Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. |  |
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HAPPY HOURS.
Where are they—those happy hours,
Link'd with everything I see,
With the colour of the flowers,
With the shadow of the tree!
Still the golden light is falling,
As when first I saw the place;
I can hear the sweet birds calling
To their young and callow race.
Link'd with everything I see,
With the colour of the flowers,
With the shadow of the tree!
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As when first I saw the place;
I can hear the sweet birds calling
To their young and callow race.
Still the graceful trees are bending,
Heavy with the weight of bloom,
Lilae and laburnum blending
With the still more golden broom;
Still the rosy May hath bowers
With her paler sister made;
Where, where are the happy hours
I have pass'd beneath their shade?
Heavy with the weight of bloom,
Lilae and laburnum blending
With the still more golden broom;
Still the rosy May hath bowers
With her paler sister made;
Where, where are the happy hours
I have pass'd beneath their shade?
Ah! those hours are turn'd to treasures
Hidden deep the heart within;
That heart has no deeper pleasures
Than the thought of what has been.
Every pleasure in remembrance,
Is like coined gold, whose claim
Rises from the stamp'd resemblance
Which bestows a worth and name.
Hidden deep the heart within;
That heart has no deeper pleasures
Than the thought of what has been.
Every pleasure in remembrance,
Is like coined gold, whose claim
Rises from the stamp'd resemblance
Which bestows a worth and name.
Still doth memory inherit
All that once was sweet and fair,
Like a soft and viewless spirit
Bearing perfume through the air;
Not a green leaf, doom'd to wither,
But has link'd some chain of thought—
Not a flower by spring brought hither,
But has some emotion brought.
All that once was sweet and fair,
Like a soft and viewless spirit
Bearing perfume through the air;
Not a green leaf, doom'd to wither,
But has link'd some chain of thought—
Not a flower by spring brought hither,
But has some emotion brought.
Let the lovely ones then perish,
They have left enough behind,
In the feelings that we cherish,
Thoughts that link'd them with the mind.
Summer haunts of summer weather,
Almost is it sweet to part;
For ye leave the friends together,
To whom first ye link'd my heart.
They have left enough behind,
In the feelings that we cherish,
Thoughts that link'd them with the mind.
Summer haunts of summer weather,
Almost is it sweet to part;
For ye leave the friends together,
To whom first ye link'd my heart.
May 31, 1836.
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