In bygone days of youthful hope—
Those golden days of cloudless azure—
Untouched by grief we drank Life's measure,
And storms came not within our scope.
For us the fragrance of the flowers—
The moonlight shone for us alone,
For us, at night, her plaintive moan
The nightingale trilled through the bowers.
And in that year of memories blest
What reckoned we of Life's dull proses .mw-parser-output .nowrap,.mw-parser-output .nowrap a:before,.mw-parser-output .nowrap .selflink:before{white-space:nowrap}. . .
How lovely then they were,
How fresh, how sweet the roses!
That radiant time is long since past.
We tasted deep of care and sadness,
Sorrows we mingled with our gladness.
But, friend, depression should not last:
See now, how fair God's world we live in;
How vast and clear is Heaven's dome,
How green the garden of our home,
And warm and mild the day He's given.
The breeze floats through the open door,
Each flower a tear of dew discloses . . .
How lovely are they now,
How fresh, how sweet the roses!
For all which we have undergone,
A hundredfold shall be amassed us.
The days will one by one slip past us,
And once the gloomy winter gone,
Anew through blossoming meadow winging
Glad Spring will take her happy flight.
The quiet moon will shine at night,
The nightingale pour forth her singing.
And, while we rest from toil, again
Our dreams of youth will soft enclose us . . .
How lovely then they'll be,
How fresh, how sweet the roses!
No, I cannot believe, that when the grave has claimed us,
Our memories of life we shall not keep;
Nor will Death take away forever joys and sorrows,
By sinking us into eternal sleep.
On opening somewhere there, shall then our eyes be blinded,
Our ears forever lose the power to hear?
And memory of the past,—beyond the coffin's darkness—
Will not the soul released still hold it dear?
Within that other world, could Raphael awaking,
Forget his Sistine Virgin thron'd above?
Would Shakespeare not sometimes remember Hamlet?
Could Mozart there his Requiem cease to love?
It cannot be. No, all which sacred was and lovely
We shall relive,—not sleep beneath the sod,
And not forgetting, no! But purely, without passion,
Again shall love, in spirit joined with God!
Sounding their call to prayer, what melancholy longing
Here in this foreign land the deep-toned bells impart.
They speak to me of home, its memories prolonging,
And all my former grief lies heavy on my heart.
My northern fields I see, all fair and snowy lying,
Our village chimes I hear, their note familiar swells,
And from that distant land, unto my thought replying
With kindness and with tenderness, resound the friendly bells.