Or, fearful, tempted the stern shade
By the old moss-grown parapet made,
Doubting to leave thy light which wont
To quiver o'er the embattled front,
A lustre seeming to impart
Hallowing the remains of art.
As o'er those ruins thou could'st shed
A recompense for glory fled,
A holier grandeur granting them
Than was their boast in day's broad gleam
So, o'er the wreck of feeling crushed
Thy midnight hour, when all is hushed
A balm doth fling which can awhile
Of all its woes the heart beguile,
Prompting, since joy may never last,
A grateful memory of the past.
Yes! those were happy times, when youth
Imagined, and received for truth
Its halcyon dreams; in every dell
A fairy spirit feigned to dwell,
And fancied in the wind's low sigh
Tones of aerial minstrelsy.
But why enumerate the thousand ties
Subtilely woven with love's sympathies