"The Memory Of Joys That Are Past" Ossian

THERE is an hour, a pensive hour;

(And oh! how dear its soothing pow'r!)

It is, when twilight spreads her veil,

And steals along the silent dale;

'Tis when the fading blossoms close,

When all is silence and repose;

Then memory wakes, and loves to mourn,

For days—that never shall return!

There is a strain, a plaintive strain,

The source of joy and yet of pain;

It is the song, whose dying measure,

Some friend belov'd has heard with pleasure;

Some friend—who ne'er again may hear,

The melting lay, to memory dear;

Ah! then, her magic spells restore,

Visions of blissful days no more!

There is a tear of sweet relief,

A tear—of rapture and of grief;

The feeling heart alone can know

What soft emotions bid it flow!

It is when memory charms the mind,

With tender images refin'd;

'Tis when her balmy spells restore,

Departed friends, and joys no more!