O’er each departed hour they love to ponder,
That, pass’d with thee, seem’d like the hours of spring.
Yes—every vanish’d joy is like a treasure
Glean’d from the mighty casket of the past,
Dearer than low-breathed music’s echoed measure,
When its soft spell around our souls is cast.
With thee at noon, when summer winds are stealing
Thro’ the green leaves in harp-tones rich and sweet,
On the bright sward in lowly homage kneeling,
With thee my prayers—my prayers of fondness meet.