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HOW few through Memory’s dreamy scope, However resolute of hope, Can view the backward scene where first Their youth rejoiced—for ever crost— And not bewail as Adam erst The Eden they have lost! Nor feel, alas! with it compared, The Present but a lengthening wild Whereon young Passion never fared, Young Beauty never smiled! Yet ’tis a melancholy pleasure To sit by moon-struck Memory’s side, And hear her wild lyre oft remeasure The story of our youthful pride! Hours recalling, ah! how rife With emotions lavished wide Through the Garden of our Life Ere all its spring-time roses died, And (like day’s splendours when the sun Remits in his decline from weaving A robe of beauty for the Ev’ning) Fancy’s Elysiums, one by one, Had paled away as the long night came on!
Yes! ’tis a melancholy sweet, |