Memory

Brightly the sun of summer shoneGreen fields and waving woods upon,And soft winds wandered by;Above, a sky of purest blue,Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,Allured the gazer's eye.

But what were all these charms to me,When one sweet breath of memoryCame gently wafting by?I closed my eyes against the day,And called my willing soul away,From earth, and air, and sky;

That I might simply fancy thereOne little flower--a primrose fair,Just opening into sight;As in the days of infancy,An opening primrose seemed to meA source of strange delight.

Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;Nature's chief beauties spring from thee;Oh, still thy tribute bringStill make the golden crocus shineAmong the flowers the most divine,The glory of the spring.

Still in the wallflower's fragrance dwell;And hover round the slight bluebell,My childhood's darling flower.Smile on the little daisy still,The buttercup's bright goblet fillWith all thy former power.

For ever hang thy dreamy spellRound mountain star and heather bell,And do not pass awayFrom sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,And whisper when the wild winds blow,Or rippling waters play.

Is childhood, then, so all divine?Or Memory, is the glory thine,That haloes thus the past?Not ALL divine; its pangs of grief(Although, perchance, their stay be brief)Are bitter while they last.

Nor is the glory all thine own,For on our earliest joys aloneThat holy light is cast.With such a ray, no spell of thineCan make our later pleasures shine,Though long ago they passed.