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And many other mournful things,
Too mournful to be told.
Too mournful to be told.
The cold, the dead, the beautiful,
E'en now they silent pass
Like floating shadows, one by one,
O'er memory's faithful glass;
And Hope, and Love start fondly up
To greet them as of yore,
But something whispers unto each—
Be still; they are no more.
E'en now they silent pass
Like floating shadows, one by one,
O'er memory's faithful glass;
And Hope, and Love start fondly up
To greet them as of yore,
But something whispers unto each—
Be still; they are no more.
Time, ceaseless Time, we know not when
Thy wanderings began,
The dreamy past is sealed to us,
The future none may scan;
We only know that round thy path
Dark ruins have been hurled,
That, 'neath thy wing Destruction rears
His altars o'er the world.
Thy wanderings began,
The dreamy past is sealed to us,
The future none may scan;
We only know that round thy path
Dark ruins have been hurled,
That, 'neath thy wing Destruction rears
His altars o'er the world.
E'en Science from his eagle height
So little can foresee,
He silent turns abashed away
If we but ask of thee;
And if to Eloquence we turn,
Mute is her silver tongue,
As if upon her spirit's lyre
The dews of death were hung.
So little can foresee,
He silent turns abashed away
If we but ask of thee;
And if to Eloquence we turn,
Mute is her silver tongue,
As if upon her spirit's lyre
The dews of death were hung.
