When to the session of sweet, silent thoughts,
I summon up remembrance of past times.
THE age of roses-yet thy cheek is pale!
Of future dreams—yet thine are with the past!
Can memory's forms along thy bosom sail,
And on thy brow no darker shadow cast!—
Oh, blessed youth !—when fond remembrance paints
Her landscapes on the heart, without a grave,
And whispers to the spirit no complaints
Save the sweet sighing of time's passing wave!—
There comes a day, when thought is like the steed,
The pale and phantom-steed bestrid by death,
That rides o'er corpses ;-like the lightning's speed,
That, what it brightens, scorches with its breath!—
When memory is the curfew of the mind,
That only speaks to tell the hour of glooms;
Or, with the maniac whom "no man could bind,”— Makes all its dwelling in the place of tombs!
How fair a thing is memory to thee!
Thou art as one who gazeth on a star,
Rejoicing in its light-yet silently,
And sad, because he gazeth from afar!