 | Lyrical and other poems |  |
MEMORY.
[I]
Around the dreams of early days,
From Time's swift wing by Feeling caught,
Stern Memory sheds her fitful blaze,
And revels in the stores of thought.
Just like the sun, when in his glow
He wakes some damps innoxious breath;
Or flowers that all their lustre throw
Upon the noisome haunts of death.
From Time's swift wing by Feeling caught,
Stern Memory sheds her fitful blaze,
And revels in the stores of thought.
Just like the sun, when in his glow
He wakes some damps innoxious breath;
Or flowers that all their lustre throw
Upon the noisome haunts of death.
Uninjured by the march of Time,
That levels nations, worlds and all,
Still does it live thro' guilt and crime
The mark of wo and source of gall.
Sad relic of the things that were,
A winter breeze around the heart,
That lives and rears its sorrows there,
From whence it will not part.
That levels nations, worlds and all,
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The mark of wo and source of gall.
Sad relic of the things that were,
A winter breeze around the heart,
That lives and rears its sorrows there,
From whence it will not part.
The deepen'd gloom of passion's soul,
With hopes and visions long since lost,
Which still exist without control,
Unchanged by fortune's sun or frost.
And all the dreams of early years,
The hopes we cherish'd, pass'd away,
Love born in sorrow, nurs'd in tears,
Time's feet may trample, not decay.
With hopes and visions long since lost,
Which still exist without control,
Unchanged by fortune's sun or frost.
And all the dreams of early years,
The hopes we cherish'd, pass'd away,
Love born in sorrow, nurs'd in tears,
Time's feet may trample, not decay.
II
'Tis Ev'ning! o'er the western sky
The Sun his purple glory flings,
And leaves a glowing track on high,
Like young remembrance when she clings
To the fond shrine where feeling first,
In accents to devotion dear,
Display'd the wild and frenzied burst,
That Memory still delights to hear.
The Sun his purple glory flings,
And leaves a glowing track on high,
Like young remembrance when she clings
To the fond shrine where feeling first,
In accents to devotion dear,
Display'd the wild and frenzied burst,
That Memory still delights to hear.
Oh! 'tis the hour of rapturous joy,
When memory still in fondest hues,
Pourtrays in dreams without alloy,
The offering gift of love's first muse.
When infant fancy takes his flight,
When infant Fancy takes his flight,
And link'd with Passion dares to rove
Far in the sunny land of light,
To meet the form it can but love.
When memory still in fondest hues,
Pourtrays in dreams without alloy,
The offering gift of love's first muse.
When infant fancy takes his flight,
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And link'd with Passion dares to rove
Far in the sunny land of light,
To meet the form it can but love.
Sweet Memory! when the dream of life,
Hangs heavy o'er my aching brow,
When all around with grief is rise,
I'll seek thee, ever fond as now;
And thou shalt call again those hours,
When Joy her incense round me cast;
And roving in thy sunny bowers,
I'll lose the Present in the Past.
Hangs heavy o'er my aching brow,
When all around with grief is rise,
I'll seek thee, ever fond as now;
And thou shalt call again those hours,
When Joy her incense round me cast;
And roving in thy sunny bowers,
I'll lose the Present in the Past.
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