Thou comest no more in melting softness drest —
No more thou weavest sweet visions of delight,
No charm thou bring’st to lull my heart to rest.
The bloom has faded from thy face, dear Hope —
The light is lost—the shadow comes not back!
Thy green oasis-flowers no more re-ope,
To scatter fragrance o’er life’s desert track.
Oh, angel-spirit of my perished years!
Thy early memory stands before me now:
Ah! by that memory, which so fair appears,