Fifty Years Hence.
Again 'twas night, and on the wave
The moon in silver lay;
Vanished had all the petty cares
And troubles of the day.
No sound in all the wide expanse,
No rustle in the wood,
Save when some evening zephyr stirred
In whispers on the flood.
Breathless and motionless she stood,
Unquestioningly dumb,
Twas as a world were waiting there—
Waiting for God to come.
Then back, through long dead years, her heart
Winged its reflective flight,
To ponder childhood's days again,
To muse on past delight.
A mist came o'er her eyes, her gaze
Had spanned the wide gulf o'er,
Old voices spake, old scenes recurred,
Old friendship lived once more.
Serene the skies, no fear, no care,
No tempest and no storm,
Wild birds and sunshine in the air,
And south winds sweet and warm.
Ah! perfect youth, ah! perfect life,
Free as a cloud above,
Ah! fount whence spring the purest hopes,
Whence flows the purest love.
For if ambition's wildest dreams
Success should crown, in truth
The cup she holds were tasteless still
Beside the wine of youth.
All silent now, ah! for the power
Again those tales to tell,
To wake afresh those sleeping chords
That memory loves so well.
But, echoing clear and low, those notes,
That song, we still may hear,
For faintly yet its music floats
In old age atmosphere.