"Song is but the eloquence of truth."
CAMPBELL.
Oh! never can we feel how dear
Each lov'd one is, till we have known
The deep regret, the bitter tear,
That comes when those lov'd ones are gone.
It is not till the flowers are pass'd,
That breath'd on summer's perfum'd air,
Till but in memory they last,
That we can feel how sweet they were:
‘Tis only at the parting hour,
Affection claims her thrilling power.
There are a thousand ties that wreathe
Around that word of magic—home;
Cold is the heart that e're could breathe
A wish from that lov'd spot to roam.
How fondly now my thoughts retrace—
All once so priz'd, now still more dear—
Each look of love, each gentle face,
The tender word, the parting tear;
Cherish'd and unforgotten seem
The gems of memory's sweetest dream.
As pants the hart in the long chace
For streams where the cool water flows,
So seeks my soul the resting place,
Where all its thoughts, its wishes close.
So dwells my spirit on the hour,
When we shall meet in joy again;
Hope has enwreath'd full many a flower—
Oh! may her visions not be vain!
The world has not a joy for me,
Dear as our meeting thus would be.