With lays of olden minstrels
They whiled the hours away,
Till twilight gently sealed them
With the sign of parting day.
Then silence fell upon them,
And the distant boatman’s song
Returned in softened echoes
The gleaming waves along;
And through the latticed windows
The hush of evening stole,
And the solemn spell of silence
Fast fettered soul to soul.
Dream on, O happy-hearted!
The future holds no truth,
No amaranthine jewel,
Like the rainbow tints of youth.
Dream on, O happy-hearted!
The hour will soon be gone,
And darkness fall too swiftly.
Dream on, young hearts, dream on!
*****
This is the proudest hour
Of all the golden twelve,
That seek the mystic caverns
Where gray gnomes dig and delve.
“The beauty of the morning
Is but the birth of day,
And the glory of the noontide
Doth pass as soon away.
“But twilight holds the fulness,
The meed of every one,
And drops the radiant circlet
Before her god, the sun.
“This is the proudest hour
Of all the golden twelve—
Now combs the Nix her tresses,
Now rests his spade the elve.