"In der Weit, weit,
Aus der Einsamkeit,
Wollen sie Dich locken."--FAUST.
When the glad, bright days of our youth's fresh prime,
Shall have pass'd, as a dream that at morning dies;
When the long blank stretch of the coming time
Like a desolate desert before us lies,
Dreary and cheerless, 'neath sunless skies.
When young, sweet love, with her luring smile,
The mystic charm-light of halcyon hours,
Shall no more with her witch'ry our souls beguile,
As the leaves grow seer on Life's fading bowers,
And the blushes are pale on its withering flowers.
When the strains we loved in the days of yore
No more with their sweetness our heart's-chords thrill,
When Hope's roseate meteors glow no more,
Like the summer sunrise o'er vale and hill,
That our dreamings with radiance were wont to fill.
When these are gone, shall the lone heart know
No solace the solitude's gloom to cheer?
Shall no stray beams lighten the spirit's woe
As it moans "alone!" e'en when crowds are near?
Must _all_ be lost that was once so dear?
Ah, no! Though Time is a thief, I ween,
Stealing youth's best wealth as the swift years go,
Still the memories of pleasures which once have been--
The dreams of the beautiful "Long ago,"
Are our own to keep, and shall aye be so!
"THE KING IS DEAD."
Hush! There's a solemn pause,
And looks of fear!
You ask--Whence comes the cause?
Grim Death is here!
Oh! well thou answerest, well--
'Tis fairly said;
Our hearts thrill to the knell,
"The King is dead!"
Dead! And the bell swings, swings
On in its deep, sad tone;
We own the King of Kings
Is King alone!
We crown our Kings, we place
Bay leaves on victors' brow,
But all our mortal race
Can boast is _now._
The body lay in state,
All fair to mortal eye;
The soul's eternal fate--
Oh! Death, thy mystery!
TO "X. Y. Z.,"
On receiving a paper from him.
"Old places have a charm for me
The new can ne'er attain;
Old faces--how I long to see
Their kindly looks again!"--Anon.
"X. Y. Z.," your paper was
A welcome thing, indeed, to me;
It brought the memories of old days,
Like fragrance wafted o'er the sea.
It spake about familiar nooks,
The dear old paths I know so well;
I almost thought I heard the brooks,
Or roamed again my favourite dell.
The happy hours, the rustic glades,
The gloaming time, the twilight stroll,
Ah, me! these April evening shades
With old-time dreams can haunt one's soul.
The heart feels young again and free,
And no such word is known as care;
Sweet rays of light that used to be
Seem hovering in the twilight air!
The hedges and the fields of green,
The lanes, the flowers, the wild bird's trill,
The trees, seen down the water's sheen.
The cattle lowing o'er the hill!
Your well-drawn school-life picture, too,
My school-time morn recalls again;
'Tis like an old tune, sweet and true,
That mingles pleasing notes with pain.
The fields, the schools, the village way,
The quaint, old-fashioned, country rhyme,
All come, like mystic glows that stray
Across the yellowing fields of Time.
The English lanes have lovely flowers,
And moss, and ferns, and birds that sing,
But Erin--green Erin--still is ours.
And to her name our fond hearts cling.
Each land we visit claims some grace--
Some special charm it calls its own;
Yet patriot souls must love the place
Which childhood's happy memories crown.