MEMORY
Brightly the sun of summer shone
Green fields and waving
woods upon,
And soft winds wandered
by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of
loveliest hue,
Allured the gazer's eye.
But what were all these charms
to me,
When one sweet breath of
memory
Came gently wafting by?
I closed my eyes against
the day,
And called my willing soul
away,
From earth, and air, and
sky;
That I might simply fancy
there
One little flower--a primrose
fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed
to me
A source of strange delight.
Sweet Memory! ever smile
on me;
Nature's chief beauties
spring from thee;
Oh, still thy tribute bring
Still make the golden crocus
shine
Among the flowers the most
divine,
The glory of the spring.
Still in the wallflower's
fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight
bluebell,
My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy
still,
The buttercup's bright goblet
fill
With all thy former power.
For ever hang thy dreamy
spell
Round mountain star and
heather bell,
And do not pass away
From sparkling frost, or
wreathed snow,
And whisper when the wild
winds blow,
Or rippling waters play.
Is childhood, then, so all
divine?
Or Memory, is the glory
thine,
That haloes thus the past?
Not ALL divine; its pangs
of grief
(Although, perchance, their
stay be brief)
Are bitter while they last.
Nor is the glory all thine
own,
For on our earliest joys
alone
That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell
of thine
Can make our later pleasures
shine,
Though long ago they passed. |
