Hail, happy thought—
Sweet, happy thought
Of boyish days!
Can hope no more arise?
Can I no more surmise
That they will come again?
All happy sport!
All sweet resort
To merry games,
To which, with spirit light,
I often did unite
In free and boy-like glee!
The welcome call
To bat and ball
I used to hear
With that intense delight,
So free, and pure, and bright,
Which only boys can know.
The merry gambols
And country rambles
I loved to join,
With admiration high,
To which no fear was nigh.
Are they for ever gone?
Yes, they are gone—
For ever gone;
In time’s abyss
I see them foundering fast;
It soon will be the last—,
The dying breath of them.
’Tis sorrow now
Bedecks my brow,
And sorry care
Lies waiting in my path;
Prevailing power it hath
To bear the spirit down.
But let me rise
To win the prize,
Which is for those
Who triumph o’er despair,
And, passing every care,
Fight bravely to the end.
BEAUTY.
Beauty, as the rose of Summer,
For a season looketh gay;
Ere a while it fades and falleth;
So doth beauty pass away.
Charms, the brilliant and enticing,
Sparkle to allure awhile;
But they are the world’s vain treasure,
And an outward, fleeting wile.
There is yet a charm more pleasing
Than the outward to behold;
’Tis a humble spirit, easing
Pilgrims onward to the fold.
This the scythe of time shall never
Rob of its adorning grace;
But shall leave it laurels ever
To bedeck its resting place.
’Tis the maiden who shall win them
Walks in virtue’s modest way,
Heeding not the world’s gay treasure,
Minding not the worldling’s way.
Not the maiden who rejoiceth
To abound in vaunting show;
This shall in the time forsake her,
When her hope hath sunken low.