II. Time has not blanched a single hair In love's deep truth, in earlier Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet, years; Though sometimes stained by secret tears ;— But where, oh where's the spirit's glow That shone through all-ten years ago? III. I, too, am changed-I scarce know why; Time cannot sure have wrought the ill; Though worn in this world's sickening strife In soul and form,-I linger still In the first summer month of life; Yet journey on my path below,— Oh! how unlike-ten years ago! IV. But, look not thus,-I would not give The wreck of hopes that thou must share, To bid those joyous hours revive, When all around me seemed so fair. We've wandered on in sunny weather, When winds were low and flowers in bloom, And hand in hand have kept together, And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom; Endeared by ties we could not know, When life was young-ten years ago! V. Has Fortune frowned?-Her frowns were vain, For hearts like ours she could not chill! Have friends proved false?—Their love might wane,— But ours grew fonder, firmer still! Twin barks on this world's changing wave, Stedfast in calms-in tempests tried, In concert still our fate we'll brave, Together cleave life's fitful tide; Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow, Youth's first wild dreams-ten years ago! VI. Have we not knelt beside his bed, And watched our first-born blossom die? Hoped, till the shade of hope had fled, Then wept till feeling's fount was dry? Was it not soothing in that hour To think, 'mid mutual tears and sighs, Our bud had left its earthly bower, And burst to bloom in Paradise? What, to the thought that soothed that woe, Were heartless joys-ten years ago? VII. Yes, it is sweet, when Heaven is bright, Time, that hath hopes and friends estranged, Hath left us love in all its truth; Sweet feelings we would not forego, February, 1824. THE CLOSING SCENE. A SKETCH. Who can bring healing to her heart's despair, Her whole rich sum of happiness lies there! CROLY. PALE is his cheek with deep and passionate thought, Save when a feverish hectic crosses it, Flooding its lines with crimson. From beneath The long dark fringes of its drooping lid |