Page:Forget Me Not 1827.pdf/4



Is it that natural impulse of the heart, Its consciousness of immortality, Which makes it happiness to be remembered? Memory—the Hero buys it with his blood; The Patriot, with proud sacrifice of self; The Poet, with sweet music from his lute, Of which his feelings are the subtle chords: Nay, even the vain Rich build palaces To make their name immortal: but of these Is there one whose delight in memory Can be like the young Lover’s?—’tis as life, As hope, to know his image is secure, Recall’d by all sweet thoughts in one fond heart. The pictur’d scroll, that lies before me now, Has wakened thoughts of this: upon the grass, Fresh as his new-sprung feelings, kneels a youth, While through the green boughs of the shadowy beech The sunshine falls like rain-drops, and behind,