Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1824.pdf/53



The deer are crouching on the sward, Save two white fawns at play, As they had not enough of mirth In the long summer day.

There are our silver pheasants too, I see their gleaming wings; And there the peacock to the moon Spreads wide his glittering rings.

There is no change upon the lake, No change on leaf or flower; There the same deer, there the same birds, The same moonlighted hour;

As the last time when here we stood, And looked our first farewell, Looked as if things inanimate Each inmost thought could tell.

E'en then my eyes with tears were wet, But they were pleasant tears— An offering to the memory Of many happy years.

My heart was light with Hopes, and these Are Birds which never sing With the same sweet familiar song They utter in our Spring.

Blessed privilege of youth, to look On time without regret; To think that which has past was fair, That to come fairer yet.

‘Tis well for us there is no gift Of prophecy on earth, Or how would every pleasure be    A rose crushed in the birth.