"THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE." "That bower and its music I never forget; But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, WHERE is that spot where at daylight's decline Like the star of the evening unsullied to shine Through life's multiplied visions the brightest of all? Who'll seek it where sadness and changes, a cloud, O'er the earliest sunbeams of pleasure have drawn ; Or deem that another so fair is allowed As the first of the many bright days that are gone? Home of my heart! if thy rocks and thy streams, Thy mountains and valleys, mine ever could be, I had fancied, to sweeten the rest of my dreams, That all earth was a garden of roses like thee; As the cloud that is gilded when passing the moon,— There only those tints can its vapours adorn, For it floats into darkness and vanishes soon,— Is life's first golden vapour the days that are gone : Yet still whilst the sunshine of summer is strong, And the arbours of spring-tide are flowerless and few, I'll think on the groves that are bursting with song, And the buds of the valley all dripping with dew, And lost in th' Elysium of shade that they bring, Fly back to the beauties and blossoms of morn; While the air that is burning around me shall ring With the voice of my song to the days that are gone. A REQUEST. WHENEVER Prayer directs your eyes Seek far away beyond the skies There is a hope when absence whelms These bosoms that too oft despond; It pierces yonder azure realms, And looks beyond: For not in vain-to end unseen The race of being bears us on ; The beaten course has trodden been In ages gone. Well Folly might the steps attend Of him who speeds to goal unknown; He'll gain a crown. Onward we press from Death to Birth For strife; the starting point is earth, The breast may ache in contest swift, The heart may palpitate for rest :— On! seize the prize! not throbs its gift, Or aching breast. The journey is but short at last, Then pain will nothing grievous seem, Or as review'd, when sleep is past, A troubled dream : |