And Other Poems.
79
Whilst pondering on the faded ink, ambition wakes once more;
And Hope, exulting, cheers us on, and calls us to the fore;
Proud thoughts and noble impulses flash through the noble mind;
But soon they’re blown by reason’s breath, like thistledown by wind.
The bright ideal dreamings fade before the lamp of truth,
Ah, still ’tis hard to part with those dear nurslings of our youth.
And Hope, exulting, cheers us on, and calls us to the fore;
Proud thoughts and noble impulses flash through the noble mind;
But soon they’re blown by reason’s breath, like thistledown by wind.
The bright ideal dreamings fade before the lamp of truth,
Ah, still ’tis hard to part with those dear nurslings of our youth.
Old letters! oft ye tell us tales of pleasant evenings spent
Where mirth, and wit, and beauty reigned, surrounded by content!
And tender forms are stayed again, and little hands are pressed
And vows are breathed softly too, and sweet lips are caressed;
We spell the fond words o’er and o’er, until each sentence seems
A passage in some magic book that tells of fairy dreams.
Where mirth, and wit, and beauty reigned, surrounded by content!
And tender forms are stayed again, and little hands are pressed
And vows are breathed softly too, and sweet lips are caressed;
We spell the fond words o’er and o’er, until each sentence seems
A passage in some magic book that tells of fairy dreams.
Sweet messengers! some of ye crossed the wild expansive foam
With throbbings of affection culled from many a breast at Home;
The tear-stained paper yet recalls bright eyes that used to glow
With pleasure in our joyousness, and in our grief o’er flow;
The merry haunts of boyhood’s days before our visions start—
The queen of painters, Nature, finds her easel in the heart.
With throbbings of affection culled from many a breast at Home;
The tear-stained paper yet recalls bright eyes that used to glow
With pleasure in our joyousness, and in our grief o’er flow;
The merry haunts of boyhood’s days before our visions start—
The queen of painters, Nature, finds her easel in the heart.
