Poems.
127
Hath passed o'er all her cherished hopes of
Future bliss, casting a shade around
Her path; deeply hath she drank from life's
Most bitter fountain; but may that
Great Being, within whose hands are all
Our destinies, assuage her grief, and
Pour into her bleeding heart the balm
Of consolation, bidding her lock
With an unclouded vision, to a
Reunion in the land of spirits.
Future bliss, casting a shade around
Her path; deeply hath she drank from life's
Most bitter fountain; but may that
Great Being, within whose hands are all
Our destinies, assuage her grief, and
Pour into her bleeding heart the balm
Of consolation, bidding her lock
With an unclouded vision, to a
Reunion in the land of spirits.
THE PAST.
The past appears but a dream;
I've mused on it over and o'er,
And as I reflect it doth seem
To puzzle my senses the more.
It came—it is gone—but where?
Not a vestige remains to tell
Of all those moments that were,
Save memory's fathomless well.
I've mused on it over and o'er,
And as I reflect it doth seem
To puzzle my senses the more.
It came—it is gone—but where?
Not a vestige remains to tell
Of all those moments that were,
Save memory's fathomless well.
There 's a shrine in every breast,
A niche called memory's bower;
The past is the only guest,
Remembrance the only flower.
A niche called memory's bower;
The past is the only guest,
Remembrance the only flower.
