258 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
Old friends whom now estranged I see, The time-worn clock that tells the hour,
The moss-grown wall, the mouldering tree, The roofless cot, the ruined tower, —
The murmuring wave, the autumn breeze,
Those wedged ranks which high o'erhead In screaming armies cross the seas,
Each tolling bell that wails the dead, Old faces once so fresh and bright,
Now sallow, wrinkled, lean, and wan. Each parting day, each passing night.
All works of nature and of man, —
Sorrows and cares that will not slumber.
Sweet life that like yon sun must set, And faults and follies without number,
All ceaseless clamoring, " Don't forget ! " Ah, friend, if wearied memory clings
With its first fondness thus to thee, 'Midst hosts of so distracting things.
That memory must immortal be !
Yet, as the primrose scents the air
More sweetly when the sun is fled, Remembrance thus to my despair
Makes thee more dear that thou art dead. Thine image flits amongst these trees ;
Yon chimes each evening ring thy knell ; And o'er the dusky bay the breeze
Comes laden with thy last farewell.
Hark ! The deep bells once more are pealing ;
The winds are hushed, the waves are bright ; And, o'er the dreamy waters stealing.
That voice, upon the wings of night,
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