Like mist on a mountain-top broken and gray,
The dream of my early day fleeted away;
Now the evening of life with its shadows steal on,
And memory reposes on years that are gone!
Wild youth with strange fruitage of errors and tears—
A midday of bliss and a midnight of fears—
Though checker’d and sad, and mistaken you’ve been,
Still love I to muse on the hours we have seen!
With those long-vanished hours fair visions are flown,
And the soul of the minstrel sinks pensive and lone;