On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
Oh well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
Oh well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill
But oh for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
As sailors watch from their prison
For the long, gray line of the coasts,
I look to the past re-arisen,
And joys come over in hosts
Like the white sea-birds from their roosts.
I love not the delicate present,
The future 's unknown to our quest;
To-day is the life of the peasant,
But the past is a haven of rest,
The joy of the past is the best.
The rose of the past is better
Than the rose we ravish to-day ;
'Tis holier, purer, and fitter
To place on the shrine where we pray,
For the secret thoughts we obey.
There are no deceptions nor changes,
There all is as placid and still;
No grief nor fate that estranges,
Nor hope that no life can fulfil;
But ethereal shelter from ill.
The coarse delights of the hour
Tempt and debauch and deprave;
And we joy in a poisonous flower,
Knowing that nothing can save
Our flesh from the fate of the grave.
But surely we leave them returning
In grief to the well-loved nest,
Filled with an infinite yearning,
Knowing the past to be rest,
That the things of the past are the best.
THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.
O MEMORIES of green and pleasant places,
Where happy birds their woodnotes twittered low!
O love that lit the dear familiar faces
From barren heights their sweetness we remember,
And backward gaze with wistful, yearning eyes,
As hearts regret, mid snow-drifts of December,
The summer's sunny skies.
Glad hours that seemed their rainbow tints to borrow
From some illumined page of fairy lore;
Bright days that never lacked a bright to-morrow,
Days that return no more.
Fair gardens, with their many-blossomed alleys,
And red, ripe roses breathing out perfume;
Deep violet nooks in green, sequestered valleys
Empurpled o'er with bloom.
Sunset that lighted up the brown-leaved beeches,
Turning their dusky glooms to glittering gold;
Moonlight that on the river's fern-fringed beaches
Streamed white-rayed, silvery cold.
O'er moorlands bleak we wander weary-hearted,
Through many a tangled, wild, and thorny maze,
Remembering as in dreams the days departed,
The bygone, happy days.
O DREADFUL Memory! why dost thou tread
From out the secret chambers of my life?
Thou livest with the dead-go to thy dead!
Nor break my peaceful carelessness with strife.
Thy chains are heavy; thou hast bound me fast.
I bend beneath the weight I have to bear;
Leave me the Present, thou hast all the Past!
Unbind me - go! I keep the smallest share.
Art thou not weary of thy ceaseless chase?
Day after day hast thou not followed me?
Thou wert relentless to pursue the race,
Until thy chains had bound me hopelessly.
I am thy captive; I am weak, thou strong!
Be merciful; cease to torment me more.
Spare me some pangs of torture, grief, and wrong;
Unloose my chains, thy wounds are deep and sore !
O faint, delicious Memory, I call:
Come very near; there is no friend like thee !
See, I have nothing left, and thou hast all!
For one short hour give it back to me.
Give me my charming summer skies again,
The fragrance of my spring and autumn breeze,
The moon that I have watched the rise and wane,
The birds I love to hear among the trees.
Sweet eyes, lost in the distance, draw more near;
Dear hands, clasp mine clasp closer yet, I pray;
Beloved voices, speak that I may hear;
Most precious Memory, go not away!
Without thee I am lonely; it is strange,
Nothing is left that I can call my own.
The world is new, passing from change to change;
My nest is empty, all my birds have flown.
Depart not yet, thy tones are very sweet,
Echoes of faith and hope and victory!
And is it true, ye lost, that we shall meet?
Canst thou restore thy treasures, Memory?
People's Magazine.
THERE dawn dear memories of the past
To charm us as we muse alone,
Still as the hues on rivers cast
When long, bright days have almost flown;
Sometimes they come and fill the mind
As stars the heavens when clouds are few;
And there a cherished welcome find,
Though old, yet seeming ever new.
They are the treasures time has made
To shadow forth the bygone years;
Though dim betimes, they cannot fade,
For each some hallowed beauty bears.
Long-slumbering joys each gently wakes,
Forms of the past each gently weaves,
E'en as a cloudless sunset makes
A cool, red splendor 'mong green leaves.
They are the day-dreams of a time
Ere life had felt the touch of care;
Loved like some sweet bell's holy chime
That faints upon the Sabbath air.
They are the echoes of the past,
And with us, when alone, they dwell; For all their wondrous beauties last, Like sounds of ocean in a shell.
ONE by one the old-time fancies
Fall like blossoms in the blast;
One by one girlhood's romances
Fade from present into past.
One by one the rosy cloudlets,
Tinted with the hues of dawn,
Lose the brightness and the beauty
That belong alone to morn.
Very fair the cherished visions
That enchant the halls of youth;
Earthly scenes seem then Elysian,
And the mirage is as truth.
One by one the visions vanish
In the light experience brings;
But though truth the unreal banish,
Still remain the living springs.
Though may fade the sparkling fountain
Glittering in the morning ray,
Still upon life's rugged mountain
Streams perennial take their way.
Then, my soul, be not disheartened
If thy castles fade in air,
And thy sunny sky be darkened
With unwonted shades of care.
Still be thine to choose and cherish
All things beautiful and bright,
Though thy fancy's garlands perish
In earth's disenchanting light.
Still be thine to see the rainbow
Spanning life's most dreary slope;
And to dream of deathless beauty
In the garden of thy hope.
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