There is an hour when Memory lends
To Thought her intellectual part,
When visions of departed friends
Restore their beauty to the heart;
And like the sunset's crimson light
To fading scenes of Nature given,
They make our meditations bright
With hopes inspired by heaven.
The vivid glance of those blue eyes
Which haunted us with early love,
Like stars that seem'd in cloudless skies
Transferr'd from earth to shine above,--
And voices whispering from the dead,
Or where the violets' lips enclose,
Around our languid spirits shed
Their halo of repose.
It is the hour of thought profound,
When Memory's heart, depress'd with gloom,
Laments upon the sculptured mound,
And dreams beside the visioned tomb;
When voices from the dead arise,
Like music o'er the starlit sea,
And holiest commune sanctifies
The Hour of Phantasy.
_Deal._