Give me back, give me back but my one infant dream,
As it passed on the turf by my dear native stream,
Where I slept from my play, while the wind tossed my hair,
Till its ringlets, unbound, clasped the violets there.
O return, fleeting time, the soft moments that flew
By the calm sinking sun, and the fall of the dew,
When, refreshing as light, and as dew to the flower
O'er my young spirit came the blest dream of that hour!
I remember the song of the bird, and the breeze
With the perfumes it swept from the bloom of the trees,
As my eyes gently closed; but the visions that stole
Through my fancy's green bowers, come no more to my soul!
They were sweet but to pass, as the odors that fled
From the young flowers I crushed, while they pillowed my head;
And like them, when they flew on the wings of the air,
They are gone, and have left not a trace to tell where!
They were clear as the sun in his mild, setting rays;
They were pure as the stars, soon to kindle and blaze;
But they 're gone! I have lost the dear dream of that sleep,
As a bright planet drowned in the vast ether deep.
Yet the face of my mother, through tears as she smiled,
When she found, gently raised, and led home her lost child—
I shall see that loved face by time's stream evermore,
Till I follow her home, where life's dreamings are o'er.