H! can it be, that every heart Must feel the deadening power of tine, And watch each tender hue depart, Which blushed upon life's hour of prime? Must feelings, warm and glowing now, Grow cold beneath the chill of years, And calmly gaze upon the woe Once felt and wept with kindred tears?
Oh! say not all at last must feel Love, hope, and confidence decay, And every year that passes, steal Some bond of sympathy away; Till all that kindly glow of heart, Which makes another's hopes our own, And weeps to see their joys depart— Life's sweetest charity—is gone,
No, no!—the glow of youth may fade, Its once bright visions melt in tears, And cold realities may shade The fairy dreams of early years; The boundless trust of conscious truth, Deceived, may weep away its prime,— And yet the warmth of golden youth Glow on, unchilled by grief or time.
Yes; though departing, one by one, Each cherished idol drops away, Until the last bright star is gone, Which beamed o'er life's declining day; Yet still, on Memory's tearful dream, The sight of others' bliss can shed A purer joy's reflected beam, A light subdued, not wholly fled.
And e'en when one sad heart must drain The bitterest cup of earthly woe, When disappointment, care, and pain, Seem man's sole heritage below; Yet still where sorrows chastened come, Subdued, not hardened feelings rise, And peace and love may lingering bloom, Where joy for ever withered lies.
And some there are, whose early dreams, Youth's poetry, outlives its years; In whom each spring of feeling seems Unchilled by time, undimmed by tears: Though o'er their closing day may lower Dark clouds of earthly woe and care, The sunshine of life's morning hour, Its tints of light still linger there.
Yes! still for them all Nature breathes, With beauty's deep though chastened spell; And, still unbidden, Fancy wreathes The fairy flowers once loved so well: The dashing waves, the bending trees, Still sound like voices loved and gone; Still music floats on every breeze, Though now it bears a mournful tone.
Oh! say not then, that passing years Must warp each feeling kind and true, And dry that fount of blesséd tears, Which fall like Summer's freshening dew; No! be it mine, through joy and woe, Living to love—beloved to die!— No frozen heart to all below, E'er glowed with warmth for things on high.
H! can it be, that every heart