There is a sweet and wildering dream
Of by-gone fresh and joyous hours,
Which gilds the memory with its beam,
And the stern spirit overpowers.
Seen thro’ the chequered glass of Time,
How spell-like do its glories rise!
Like some ethereal pantomime
Danced on the skirt of autumn skies!
We stand and gaze; and wonder-rapt,
Think of the changing power of years,
As on our brow its trace has crept,
And from our eyes exacted tears.
There is glad childhood, rob’d in smiles,
And beauteous as a dew-gem’d flower,
Whose silver laugh and boyish wiles,
Usurp the mother many an hour.
There is the first half-spoken word,
How rare a music to her ear!
She listens, as she had not heard,
And hearing, owns it with a tear.
There is a passing on of Time—
The boy is merged into the man—
And daringly he frets to climb
What once his vision could not scan.
Come back from this poetic scene!
Come from this scene of flowery youth!
Come from the time when all was green,
To cold and dreary, stubborn truth.
Look on your own now withered brow,
Where care sits emperor of the mind;
Look to your throbbing heart; and now
Cast all these dreams of youth behind.
Read the sad change which Time has wrought
Compare it by your memory’s glass;
And turn from that whose lightest thought
Points to the grave where ages pass.
See, from the cradle to the tomb,
Though years are multiplied between,
How brief, in varied joy and gloom,
Is Life’s wild, feverish, fitful scene.
But yesterday, and youth was drest
In dimpled and in smiling glee,
Drawn, with fond fervor, to her breast,
Or throned upon a mother’s knee.
To-day, and Time, with added years,
Has stampt his progress on our brow
In manhood’s pallid care, and tears
Unbidden dim the vision now.
Lancaster, Pa. 1841.
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