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.
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.
And when I hear my father praise
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.
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!
Time hallows every happy hour;
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.
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.
As after music's tones have ceased.
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.
Then let us gather only flowers
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!
I SAW a child—a lovely flower,
Spring to the Summer's breath;
I looked again—twas but an hour—
And lo, 'twas laid in death!
I asked an angel why it was so,
Why such to earth were given?
The angel said, "They spring below.
But have their bloom in heaven!"
When hearts are giving sigh for sigh,
And pouring out their treasure,
When the fond breast is beating high
With Love's delicious pleasure.
Oh, why should Wisdom ever come
To cast a shade o'er feeling,
Oh, why should Wisdom ever come,
Life's sweetest pleasure stealing!
When lip to lip is warmly pressed,
And heart to heart is leaning,
Feeling what cannot be expressed,
Though Love divines the meaning;
Oh, why should Wisdom ever come
To cast a shade o'er feeling,
Oh, why should Wisdom ever come,
Life's sweetest pleasure stealing!
We cannot love and still be wise—
This truth is past concealing;
Wisdom must see; Love has no eyes,
But trusts alone to feeling;
Then why should Wisdom ever come
To cast a shade o'er feeling,
Oh, why should Wisdom ever come,
Life's sweetest pleasure stealing!
If Wisdom, then, casts Love away,
As fruit discards the blossom,
Oh, take old Wisdom, let Love stay,
He's dearer to my bosom;
For why should Wisdom ever come
To cast a shade o'er feeling,
Oh, why should Wisdom ever come,
Life's sweetest pleasure stealing!
A TEAR-DROP fell from an angel's eye,
And lodged in the cup of a flower;
While trembling there, 'twas embraced by a sigh.
And Cupid was born in the bower.
Thus sprang from embraces, so sweetly impress'd.
The child of a sigh and a tear,
And reared on the sweets of a flower's breast,
Why marvel he's wayward, sweet, tender, and dear?
Her cheek is pale, her eye of blue so full
You see the tear-drop start;
She is too tender and too beautiful
For death's unerring dart;
Yet God receives the dutiful—
Be still, my heart!