WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
Judge we of coming, by the by-past, years,
And still can Hope, the siren, soothe our fears?
Cheated, deceived, our cherished day-dreams o’er,
We cling the closer, and we trust the more.
Oh, who can say there’s bliss in the review
Of hours, when Hope with fairy fingers drew
A magic sketch of “rapture yet to be,”
A rainbow horizon, a life of glee!
The world all bright before us—vivid scene
Of cloudless sunshine and of fadeless green;
A treacherous picture of our coming years,
Bright in prospective—welcomed but with tears.
How false the view, a backward glance will tell!
A tale of visions wrecked, of broken spell,
Of valued hearts estranged or careless grown,
Affection’s links dissevered or unknown;
Of joys, deemed fadeless, gone to swift decay,
And love’s broad circle dwindled half away;
Of early graves of friends who, one by one,
Leave us at last to journey on alone.
Turn to the home of childhood—hallowed spot,
Through life’s vicissitudes still unforgot;
The sacred hearth deserted now is found,
Or unloved stranger-forms are circling round.
In the dear hall, whose sounds were all our own,
Are other voices, other accents known;
And where our early friends? A starting tear
And the rude headstone promptly answer, “Here.”
Thus will compare Hope’s sketch of bliss to be
With the undreamed of, sad reality;
Yet this and more the afflicted heart may bear,
If Faith, celestial visitant, be there,
Whispering of greener shores, of purer skies,
Of flowers unfading, love that never dies,
A glimpse of joy to come in mercy given,
The eternal sunshine of approving Heaven.
1818. E. P. K.