Poems (Taggart)/Past Pleasures

by Cynthia Taggart

PAST PLEASURES. 1824.

No more, dear Sisters, hand in hand,
 Beside the placid stream,
At eve we wander pensively
 By Luna's silver beam.

No more in musing mood we stray
 Along the winding shore,
And list the music of the waves,
 Where mingling surges roar;

Nor haste, in joyous ramble free,
 Through flowery fields and fair,
Where vermil blooms delightingly
 Wave in the sportive air;—

Where lucid streamlets rippling flow,
 The shadowy vales among,
And Zephyr, flitting o'er each bough,
 Wakes the aerial song.

No gayly tinted beauties now,
 From the wild brake's recess,
These cold, emaciate hands convey
 In blooming loveliness.

No more each thought unsullied springs,
 With peace encircled round,
As when in some fair bower I lay,
 Or on some mossy mound;—

While the faint light's last glimmering beam
 Did through the branches play,
And on the thin cloud blushing gleam,
 Then beauteous glide away.

Nor, when the still and placid night
 In darkness veils the sphere,
And silence spreads a soft delight,
 Doth peace's loved form appear.

No more the spirit tranquil yields,
 To slumber soft resigned,
The pleasing meditative task
 Of the retiring mind.

Those transient hours of peace are fled,
 Those happy days are gone;
Time moving forward, winged with haste,
 Forbids their blest return.