Judge we of coming, by the by-past, years,
And still can Hope, the siren, soothe
our fears?
Cheated, deceived, our cherished day-dreams
o’er,
We cling the closer, and we trust the
more.
Oh, who can say there’s bliss in
the review
Of hours, when Hope with fairy fingers
drew
A magic sketch of “rapture yet to
be,”
A rainbow horizon, a life of glee!
The world all bright before us vivid
scene
Of cloudless sunshine and of fadeless
green;
A treacherous picture of our coming years,
Bright in prospective welcomed
but with tears.
How false the view, a backward glance
will tell!
A tale of visions wrecked, of broken spell,
Of valued hearts estranged or careless
grown,
Affection’s links dissevered or
unknown;
Of joys, deemed fadeless, gone to swift
decay,
And love’s broad circle dwindled
half away;
Of early graves of friends who, one by
one,
Leave us at last to journey on alone.
Turn to the home of childhood hallowed
spot,
Through life’s vicissitudes still
unforgot;
The sacred hearth deserted now is found,
Or unloved stranger-forms are circling
round.
In the dear hall, whose sounds were all
our own,
Are other voices, other accents known;
And where our early friends? A starting
tear
And the rude headstone promptly answer,
“Here.”
Thus will compare Hope’s sketch
of bliss to be
With the undreamed of, sad reality;
Yet this and more the afflicted heart
may bear,
If Faith, celestial visitant, be there,
Whispering of greener shores, of purer
skies,
Of flowers unfading, love that never dies,
A glimpse of joy to come in mercy given,
The eternal sunshine of approving Heaven.
1818.
E. P. K.