Classic Poem

Oh , when the day of passion's fled,
And softly by life's gliding river
We gather flowers to grace our dead,
From all but mem'ry gone for ever,
The fairest wreaths I'll daily twine
Of every tender leaf and blossom
To lay upon the hidden shrine,
Still sacred to thee in my bosom.

Though life's bright noon hath passed away,
With all its tales of love unspoken,
My beauteous rosebud, 'neath its ray,
Untimely fallen, crushed, and broken,
I'll keep its seared and withered leaves,
And find in them as pure a pleasure
As doth the farmer in his sheaves —
The generous autumn's golden treasure.

Thy love has kept me oft from ill,
When I afar in youth went roaming,
And thy sweet power is on me still,
When walking softly through life's gloaming;
Thy mem'ry kept my spirit young,
For still I felt I was thy lover;
And how could I, sweet, e'er do wrong,
Believing thou didst near me hover?

For thou so gentle wert and pure,
And now, when other ties have bound me,
No mortal band seems to endure
Like that in which thy love hath wound me.
As through a sacred fane, I rove
Where thou didst first my fancy capture,
And though we never spoke of love —
Ah! well we knew the passion's rapture.

Adown by yonder crystal brook
I see thee yet among the flowers —
Thy beaming smile, thy radiant look —
A fairy in her woodland bowers;
And in the bonnie hazel dell
I hear the music of life's morning —
Thy voice, with all its softening spell,
Comes o'er the waste of years returning.

I hear it whispering in the trees,
And as to list its tones I linger,
I seem to think the wooing breeze
The touchings of thine angel finger.
Good night, my love! I soon will sleep;
And, oh! how blest will be the waking —
No more to part, no more to weep —
When the eternal morn is breaking!