MEMORY.
trong as that power whose strange control
Impels the torrent’s force;
Directs the needle to the pole,
And bids the waves of ocean roll
In their appointed course;
So powerful are the ties that bind
The scenes of childhood to the mind;
So firmly to the heart adheres
The memory of departed years.
Whence is this passion in the breast?
That when the past we view,
And think on pleasures, once possessed,
In Fancy’s fairest colors dressed,
Those pleasures we renew?
And why do memory’s pains impart
A pleasing sadness to the heart?
What potent charm to all endears
The days of our departed years?
True—many a rose-bud, blooming gay,
Life’s opening path adorns;
But all who tread that path will say
That, ’mid the flowers which strew its way,
Are care’s corroding thorns.
