From the French.
Where is my eighteenth year? far back
Upon life's variegated track;
Yet fondly oft I turn my eye,
And for my eighteenth year I sigh.
Each pleasure then I took with zest,
And hope was inmate of my breast--
Enchanting hope, consoling thing,
The plucker out of sorrow's sting.
The sun above shone brighter then,
Fairer were women, kinder men;
If tears I shed, they soon were o'er,
And I was happier than before.
The minstrel-wight of ancient day
Wish'd that the twelve months all were May;
I wish that every year I see
The eighteenth of my life could be.