II.
No more, no more, why should I dream
Dreams that I know are vain?
Why trust the future, when the past
I would not live again?
Affection,—'tis the glittering wealth
Of snow-work in the sun;
Pleasure,—the rocket's shining course,
Ended ere well begun.
Hope, the false music, luring where
The syren Sorrow dwells;
And Praise a very mockery,
The chime of the fool's bells.
And yet, alas! for the fond time
When I believed all this,—
Although 'twas nothing but a dream,
At least the dream was bliss.
The heart is like those fairy rings,
Where all of green has died;
Yet there, they say, the fairy race
By moonlight wont to ride.
We hold to that gay creed no more—
Gone is the elfin reign;
Yet, surely, such fair visions fled
Is more of loss than gain.
But thus it is, as years pass on,
Even with our own heart;
We see the visions, one by one,
Of early youth depart.
We gaze around—all is the same
O'er which our young eye ranged;
But—sorrow for the heart and eye!—
Ourselves, ourselves are changed.
L. E. L.
