I gaze upon ye, once again,
Old records of the past,
And o'er the dim and faded lines
My tears are falling fast;
I deem'd not there was a power yet,
In these few simple words,
To stir within my quiet heart
Such old familiar chords.
Ye bring me back mine early dreams--
Oh, but to dream them now,
With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart,
And pure unsadden'd brow!
The loved--the lost--the changed--
The dead--all these we conjure up,
And mingled in the draught
That lies in memory's magic cup.
Old letters--sad mementoes ye,
Of friendship's shatter'd chain,
Oh! that the hand these pages traced,
My own might clasp again.
They tell me yet of early love,
Of feelings glad and gay,
Of childhood's April hopes and fears--
The writers, where are they?
Time's changes are for deeper things
Than folly's vain pursuit,
Spring blossoms fade, to leave a place
For autumn's ripen'd fruit.
Look back upon the buried past,
But not with vain regret,
Be grateful for the many joys
That bloom around thee yet.
Bend heavenward thine onward course,
That years of coming age
May leave an impress in life's book,
Pure as its opening page!