The ling’ring day-dreams that in mem’ry last,
Untouch’d by Time’s realities of truth.
Again we roam where forest-shadows blending,
Ring with the gladness of our playful hours,
Along the murm’ring stream once more we’re wending,
Lured by the sunny mead, soft winds, and flowers—
Or, oft renew the link that death hath broken,
The cherish’d dead—again recall to view;
Hear ’mid thy varied tones, the fond words spoken,
That erst from sorrow’s fount deep anguish drew.