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Rh

XII.

'Tis soothing, oh! most soothing to the heart, To rove 'mid scenes where once we have been blest! Each tree, each blossom, has a thrilling charm; They seem memorials of those happier hours: The very sigh that tells they are no more, Is sweet unto the spirit; former days, And former feelings, rise upon the soul, Dear as they once have been. Again the heart Throbs warmly, fondly, as 'twas wont to do. Thou, who art yet with young hopes undecay'd, With unscath'd happiness, thy bosom guest, Unchill'd by sorrow; 'tis not thine to tell How soon the warmth, the purity will fade, Of thy once lovely wild imaginings! Thou canst not tell how dear they'll be to thee,