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 TRONG as that power whose strange control
 * Impels the torrent’s force;

Directs the needle to the pole, And bids the waves of ocean roll
 * In their appointed course;

So powerful are the ties that bind The scenes of childhood to the mind; So firmly to the heart adheres The memory of departed years.

Whence is this passion in the breast?
 * That when the past we view,

And think on pleasures, once possessed, In Fancy’s fairest colors dressed,
 * Those pleasures we renew?

And why do memory’s pains impart A pleasing sadness to the heart? What potent charm to all endears The days of our departed years?

True—many a rose-bud, blooming gay,
 * Life’s opening path adorns;

But all who tread that path will say That, ’mid the flowers which strew its way,
 * Are care’s corroding thorns.