Memory
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- Brightly the sun of summer shone
- Green 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 memory
- Came 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 there
- One little flower--a primrose fair,
- Just opening into sight;
- As in the days of infancy,
- An opening primrose seemed to me
- A source of strange delight.
- Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
- Nature's chief beauties spring from thee;
- Oh, still thy tribute bring
- Still make the golden crocus shine
- Among 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 fill
- With all thy former power.
- For ever hang thy dreamy spell
- Round mountain star and heather bell,
- And do not pass away
- From 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 alone
- That holy light is cast.
- With such a ray, no spell of thine
- Can make our later pleasures shine,
- Though long ago they passed.
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