Page:The Domestic Affections, and Other Poems.pdf/19



T 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!