Oh! why of memory complain?
Why weep her retrospective power?
Oft has she smoothed the bed of pain,
And oft beguiled the weary hour.
Oft when with grief our hearts were filled,
Has she some social scene retraced,
Till every vein with pleasure thrilled,
And lost the present in the past.
What tho’ the rays at early morn
That gilt our path, have spent their force?
What tho’ the brighter beams are shorn
That gladdened all our noontide course?
The setting sun’s serener glance
With milder lustre gilds the shore,
And crimson’s all the vast expanse,
Of that dread sea, we must explore;
And as we stand upon its brink,
Although of many a joy bereft,
Of many a friend, ’tis sweet to think
That still our truest friends are left.
Tho’ flattering hope has oft deceived
With visionary joys our youth,
To know, she now may be believed
While trusting in a saviour’s truth.
As on the joys of yonder shore
Her glowing thoughts enraptured dwell,
’Tis sweet to know its blessings more,
Than e’en seraphic hope can tell.