Tender, oh, how sweetly tender,
Are the musings of an hour,
When the mellowing scenes around us
Give to Memory magic power;
Thought recalls those scenes long parted,
Life epitomized appears,
Moments then reflect a lifetime
Reaching back through many years.
Oh, how blessed are those moments!
Present scenes can never fire
Such a rapture in our bosom
As fond Memory can inspire;
Naught on earth can e'er be spoken
To attract the living ear,
Like the words of the departed
Uttered when among us here.
Time and Death have made them sacred,
Memory calls them oft to mind,
And her choicest, dearest treasures,
She for them has oft entwined;
This is but a simple homage,
Richly paying him who kneels;
He who's prompted by such feelings,
For his fellow being feels.
Dark must be that soul enshrouded,
Which Oblivion would prefer
To the soothing power of Memory
And the influence shed by her:
Life itself is not worth having
If deprived of such a bliss,
Earth has not another treasure
That we may compare with this.
DISCONTENT.
Let quiet people talk of peace—
Contentment of the mind,
But he who lives at perfect ease
Can never bless mankind.
If each no higher end should seek
Than that which now he fills,
But be content, subdued, and meek,
'Twould bring a thousand ills.
Advancement then would have an end.
Progression then would cease,
Invention have no earnest friend,
And science no increase.
But Discontent, though called a fiend,
Is progress in disguise,
'Tis this by which our end's attained,
'Tis this by which we rise.