Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/36

Yes, thus it is. How passing sweet,
    Ye stricken blind, your chanted lays,
Those breathings of a chastened soul,
    That turns its discipline to praise.

Yet think not, though in heart you mourn
    The shrouded charms of hill and plain,
That all your lot withholds is loss,
    Or all our boasted pleasures, gain.

Ye miss the sight of wan decay,
    The wrinkle on the brow so dear,
The sunny ringlet changed to gray,
    The flush of youth to sorrow's tear.

Ye miss the cold averted eye,
    The scowl of passion's fierce control,
The leer of pride, the frown of hate,
    The glance of scorn that stings the soul.

Ye miss the fading of the rose,
    The lily drooping on its stalk,
The frosty blight, that autumn throws
    O'er vine-wreathed bower and summer walk.

We see indeed the form, the smile,
    The lip, that gives affection's kiss;
Yet thoughtless oft, or thankless grow,
    Even from the fulness of our bliss.