HOW few through Memorys dreamy scope,
However resolute of hope,
Can view the backward scene where first
Their youth rejoicedfor ever crost
And not bewail as Adam erst
The Eden they have lost!
Nor feel, alas! with it compared,
The Present but a lengthening wild
Whereon young Passion never fared,
Young Beauty never smiled!
Yet tis a melancholy pleasure
To sit by moon-struck Memorys side,
And hear her wild lyre oft remeasure
The story of our youthful pride!
Hours recalling, ah! how rife
With emotions lavished wide
Through the Garden of our Life
Ere all its spring-time roses died,
And (like days splendours when the sun
Remits in his decline from weaving
A robe of beauty for the Evning)
Fancys Elysiums, one by one,
Had paled away as the long night came on!
Yes! tis a melancholy sweet,
And thus let Memory oft repeat
Lifes first tale, that to the core
Retempered by such generous lore,
Our hardning spirits, as tis meet,
May pity the cold worldthe world we trust no more!
