 | The Village Churchyard |  |
264
SONNET.
It was a quiet hour!—the last, sweet songOf birds had died away, upon the air;
The scene, a shadowy hue began to wear;—
Then Memory's moonlight-beauty showered along
My Spirit; then brought she back a gentle throng
Of things lamented; dreams, once bright and fair,
Long dimmed and clouded; treasures, pure and rare,
Long lost, long buried!—much, much that the strong
And pitiless hand of Time reft, in his hour
Of spoliation, and of stern decay;
Things that, ev'n with the perfumes of a flower—
The echoes of a song—had pass'd away;
That dark Oblivion press'd on, to o'erpower;—
Then rose they, to dispute awhile her sway!
| The Village Churchyard | |