A LAMENT.

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.

My heart was a garden

Where fresh leaves grew

Flowers there were many,

And weeds a few;

Cold winds blew,

And the frosts came thither,

For flowers will wither,

And weeds renew!

Youth's bright palace

Is overthrown,

With its diamond sceptre

And golden throne;

As a time-worn stone

Its turrets are humbled,—

All hath crumbled

But grief alone!

Wither, oh, whither,

Have fled away

The dreams and hopes

Of my early day?

Ruined and gray

Are the towers I builded;

And the beams that gilded —

Ah! where are they?

Once this world

Was fresh and bright,

With its golden noon

And its starry night;

Glad and light,

By mountain and river,

Have I bless'd the Giver

With hushed delight.

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!