BY C. C. MOORE.
The dreams of Hope that round us play, And lead along our early youth, How soon, alas! they fade away Before the sober rays of Truth.
And yet there are some joys in life That Fancy's pencil never drew; For Fancy's self, my own dear wife, Ne'er dreamt the bliss I owe to you.
You have awaken'd in my breast Some chords I ne'er before had known; And you've imparted to the rest A stronger pulse, a deeper tone.
And e'en the troubles that we find Our peace oft threat'ning to o'erwhelm, Like foreign foes, but serve to bind More close in love our little realm.
I've not forgot the magic hour When youthful passion first I knew; When early love was in its flower, And bright with ev'ry rainbow hue.
Then, fairy visions lightly moved, And waken'd rapture as they pass'd; But faith and love, like yours approved, Give joys that shall for ever last.
A spotless wife's enduring love, A darling infant's balmy kiss, Breathe of the happiness above; Too perfect for a world like this.
These heaven-sent pleasures seem too pure To take a taint from mortal breath; For, still unfading, they endure 'Mid sorrow, sickness, pain, and death.
When cruel Palsy's withering blow Had left my father weak, forlorn, He yet could weep for joy, to know I had a wish'd-for infant born.