Do I not know? Can Fate her stern course alter?
Are they not shadows of the brightness gone,
Which make the fond heart faint, the red lip falter,
Leaving me mournful memories alone—
They tell me why!
IV.
They are past and gone!
Those days that were so glad and bright,
Oh, can we call back one?
Ah, never!—would we might!
The memories of our early years,
Shall hallow still this cherish'd spot—
And hopes, though faded, ne'er forgot,
Whose light is quenched in tears!
L. B. Smith.
[YOUNG LOVE.]
AN EXTRACT: BY J. G. PERCIVAL.
Why are we not like Nature, ever new,
Freshening with every season? It is pain
To gaze, when sick and wasted, on the blue
Arching as purely o'er us, and the stain
Of the curled clouds, that gather in the train,
Which the low sun makes glorious with his smile;
To see the light Spring weave her rosy chain,
And sow her pearls, no longer can beguile,
When age, and want, and sin, our sinking hearts defile.
Youth is the season when we most enjoy,
If we would know the sweets of life; the mind
Is then pure feeling, for no base alloy
Of gain hath blended with the ore refined
By the wise hand of Nature, who designed
The beautiful years to be alone the time
When we can fondly love, and loving find
In the adored the same glad passion chime,
As if two spirits met in one most tuneful rhyme.