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LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.
MOORE. Oh, the days are gone, when beauty bright,
My heart's chain wove;' When my dream of life from morn till night, Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom,
And days may come
As love's young dream;
As love's young dream.
Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past, Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last;
He'll never meet
A joy so sweet,
His soul-felt flame;
The one lov'd name.
Oh, that fairy form is ne'er forgot,
Which first love traced ;
On memory's waste :
'Twas odour fled,
As soon as shed,
On life's dull stream:
On life's dull stream.
How many thousands are wakening now!
And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice,
And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And some, in the gloomy convict cell,
And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
But one must the sound be, and one the call,
THE CHILD'S DREAM.
What know we of the glorious sights which bless an
infant's dream? Or, could we guess them, what more meet to be a
poet's theme? The hope than e'en a glimpse of such my numbers
might make known, To fond imagination brings a day-dream of its own.
Tis of a child of five years old, upon whose peaceful
sleep Fair visions of another world with silent footsteps creep; Soft as the dew on summer flowers, or moonlight on
the sea, The influence of that blissful dream to Fancy seems
The cheek, upon the pillow press’d, wears joy's de
lightful tinge, The eyes are closed, yet joy's bright tear steals thro'
the eyelids' fringe. The lips are voiceless, yet they wear the sweetest
smile of bliss A smile so sweet, it well might chide the fondest
Thou happy sleeper, might I tell where now thy spirit
roams, The lot it shares-how poor would seem the joys of
proudest domes ! Fame, wealth, and grandeur, never get a pleasure
could impart So pangless and so pure as those which now possess
For thou art in the land of thought, and far hast left
behind The fading happiness of earth, for raptures more refined; Thine seemis a foretaste of the boon appointed for the
bless'd, “Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the
weary are at rest."
And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth ;
Too soon return'd to Earth!
In carelessness or mirth,
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
So I behold them not;
Like common earth can rot;
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
And canst not alter now,
Nor falsehood disavow;