 | [Poems by Clark in] The laurel |  |
211
THE YOUNG.
When into dust, like dewy flowers departed,
From our dim paths the bright and lovely fade;
The fair in form—the pure—the gentle hearted,
Whose looks within the breast a Sabbath made;
How like a whisper on the inconstant wind,
The memory of their voices stirs the mind!
From our dim paths the bright and lovely fade;
The fair in form—the pure—the gentle hearted,
Whose looks within the breast a Sabbath made;
How like a whisper on the inconstant wind,
The memory of their voices stirs the mind!
We hear the sigh, the song, the fitful laughter
That from their lips, in balm, were wont to flow,
When hope's beguiling wings they hurried after,
And drank her siren music long ago;
While joy's bright harp to sweetest lays was strung
And poured rich numbers for the loved and young!
That from their lips, in balm, were wont to flow,
When hope's beguiling wings they hurried after,
And drank her siren music long ago;
While joy's bright harp to sweetest lays was strung
And poured rich numbers for the loved and young!
When the clear stars are burning high in heaven,—
When the low night-winds kiss the autumnal tree,
And thoughts are deepening in the hush of even,
How soft those voices on the heart will be!
They breathe of raptures which have bloomed and died,
Of sorrows, by remembrance sanctified.
When the low night-winds kiss the autumnal tree,
And thoughts are deepening in the hush of even,
How soft those voices on the heart will be!
They breathe of raptures which have bloomed and died,
Of sorrows, by remembrance sanctified.
Yet, when the loved have from our pathway vanished,
What potent magic can their smiles restore?
Like some gay sun-burst, by the tempest banished,
They passed in darkness—they will come no more.
Unlike the day-beams, when the storm hath fled,
No light renewed breaks on their lowly bed!
What potent magic can their smiles restore?
212
They passed in darkness—they will come no more.
Unlike the day-beams, when the storm hath fled,
No light renewed breaks on their lowly bed!
| [Poems by Clark in] The laurel | |