165
His lovely dreams are past—to gaze
Upon the water's gilded sheen,
And catch the bright and golden rays,
That evening hangs upon the scene;
To wander forth at starry night,
With feelings holy as the hour,
And gaze upon those worlds of light,
And silently admire, adore.
Upon the water's gilded sheen,
And catch the bright and golden rays,
That evening hangs upon the scene;
To wander forth at starry night,
With feelings holy as the hour,
And gaze upon those worlds of light,
And silently admire, adore.
To sit beneath some summer tree,
With a fair landscape round him spread,
And with firm touch, unerringly
To seize it, ere its charm be fled;
To stamp upon the tablet white,
With faithful hand, each flitting grace,
And there, with ever new delight,
His own still brighter mind to trace.
With a fair landscape round him spread,
And with firm touch, unerringly
To seize it, ere its charm be fled;
To stamp upon the tablet white,
With faithful hand, each flitting grace,
And there, with ever new delight,
His own still brighter mind to trace.
He sits no more beside the stream,
Gathering its fresh and verdant flowers;
No more he hails the morning beam,
Or wanders forth in evening hours.
The pale stars sorrowingly look down,
Upon his sleepless couch of pain;
And the moon's loveliest beam is thrown,
To tempt the sufferer's gaze—in vain.
Gathering its fresh and verdant flowers;
No more he hails the morning beam,
Or wanders forth in evening hours.
The pale stars sorrowingly look down,
Upon his sleepless couch of pain;
And the moon's loveliest beam is thrown,
To tempt the sufferer's gaze—in vain.
