These were the days
Of story and song,
When Hope had a meaning
And Faith was strong. 
“Life will be long,
And lit with Love’s gleamings;”
Such were my dreamings,
But, ah, how wrong!

Youth’s illusions,
One by one,
Have passed like clouds
That the sun looked on. 
While morning shone,
How purple their fringes! 
How ashy their tinges
When that was gone!

Darkness that cometh
Ere morn has fled—­
Boughs that wither
Ere fruits are shed—­
Death bells instead
Of a bridal’s pealings—­
Such are my feelings,
Since Hope is dead!

Sad is the knowledge
That cometh with years—­
Bitter the tree
That is watered with tears;
Truth appears,
With his wise predictions,
Then vanish the fictions
Of boyhood’s years.

As fire-flies fade
When the nights are damp—­
As meteors are quenched
In a stagnant swamp—­
Thus Charlemagne’s camp,
Where the Paladins rally,
And the Diamond Valley,
And Wonderful Lamp,

And all the wonders
Of Ganges and Nile,
And Haroun’s rambles,
And Crusoe’s isle,
And Princes who smile
On the Genii’s daughters
’Neath the Orient waters
Full many a mile,

And all that the pen
Of Fancy can write
Must vanish
In manhood’s misty light—­
Squire and knight,
And damosels’ glances,
Sunny romances
So pure and bright!

These have vanished,
And what remains?—­
Life’s budding garlands
Have turned to chains;
Its beams and rains
Feed but docks and thistles,
And sorrow whistles
O’er desert plains!

The dove will fly
From a ruined nest,
Love will not dwell
In a troubled breast;
The heart has no zest
To sweeten life’s dolour—­
If Love, the Consoler,
Be not its guest!

The dream is over,
The vision has flown;
Dead leaves are lying
Where roses have blown;
Wither’d and strown
Are the hopes I cherished,—­
All hath perished
But grief alone!

THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR.

      Yes! the Summer is returning,
      Warmer, brighter beams are burning
      Golden mornings, purple evenings,
        Come to glad the world once more. 
      Nature from her long sojourning
      In the Winter-House of Mourning,
      With the light of hope outpeeping,
      From those eyes that late were weeping,
      Cometh dancing o’er the waters
        To our distant shore. 
      On the boughs the birds are singing,
            Never idle,
            For the bridal
      Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing
      All the green bells on the branches,
      Which the soul of man doth hear;
            Music-shaken,
            It doth waken,
      Half in hope, and half in fear,
And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year!