1840-50.]
HORACE P. BIDDLE.
333
brought him forward as a candidate for the same position, but the ticket was not successful.
Mr. Biddle leads a somewhat retired life at his residence, "The Island Home," near Logansport, but has not altogether abandoned the practice of law. He has a well-selected library and a good collection of musical instruments, which occupy a large portion of his leisure hours. He has frequently delivered lectured on literary and scientific topics. It is understood that he is preparing for the press a work on the musical scale, for which original merit is claimed.
HAPPY HOURS.
They say that Time, who steals our hours.
Will never bring them back.
But bears them off like faded flowers
That strew his endless track.
Will never bring them back.
But bears them off like faded flowers
That strew his endless track.
But when I think of childhood's dreams
That round my pillow cling.
And dream them o'er again, it seems
He never stirred his wing.
That round my pillow cling.
And dream them o'er again, it seems
He never stirred his wing.
And when I hear my father praise
His little urchin boy.
It calls to mind those halcyon days,
When all I knew was joy.
His little urchin boy.
It calls to mind those halcyon days,
When all I knew was joy.
And yet I feel the fervent kiss
My mother gave her son;
Again I share a mother's bliss,
Forgetting that she's gone.
My mother gave her son;
Again I share a mother's bliss,
Forgetting that she's gone.
And when I call back friends again,
That erst I loved to greet.
And hear each voice's well-known strain.
Again we seem to meet!
That erst I loved to greet.
And hear each voice's well-known strain.
Again we seem to meet!
Time hallows every happy hour;
While fading in the past.
E'en grief and anguish lose their power,
And cease to pain at last.
While fading in the past.
E'en grief and anguish lose their power,
And cease to pain at last.
Although he thins our locks so dark,
And silvers them with gray.
His crumbling touch can never mark
The spirit with decay.
And silvers them with gray.
His crumbling touch can never mark
The spirit with decay.
He gathers all the fadeless flowers.
And weaves them in a wreath.
And with them twines our well-spent hours
To blunt the dart of death.
And weaves them in a wreath.
And with them twines our well-spent hours
To blunt the dart of death.
As after music's tones have ceased.
We oft recall the strain,
So when our happy hours are past,
They come to us again.
We oft recall the strain,
So when our happy hours are past,
They come to us again.
Though Time may mingle thorns with flowers,
And gloomy hours with gay,
He bring us back the happy hours,
And bears the sad away.
And gloomy hours with gay,
He bring us back the happy hours,
And bears the sad away.
Then let us gather only flowers
Along the path we tread,
And only count the happy hours,
Forgetting all the sad.
Along the path we tread,
And only count the happy hours,
Forgetting all the sad.
And if we yet should feel a woe,
Fond hope soon comes to prove,
That though 'tis sometimes dark below,
'Tis always bright above!
Fond hope soon comes to prove,
That though 'tis sometimes dark below,
'Tis always bright above!
