Classic Poem

Father, no amaranths e'er shall wreathe my brow,—
Enough that round thy grave they flourish now:—
But Love 'mid my young locks his roses braided,
And what cared I for flow'rs of deeper bloom?
Those too seemed deathless—here they never faded,
But, drenched and shattered, dropped into the tomb.

Ne'er was it mine t' unlock rich founts of song,
As thine it was, ere Time had done thee wrong:—
But ah! how blest I wandered nigh the stream,
Whilst Love, fond guardian, hovered o'er me still!
His downy pinions shed the tender gleam
That shone from river wide or scantiest rill.

Now, whether Winter ‘slumbering, dreams of Spring’,
Or, heard far off, his resonant footsteps fling
O'er Autumn's sunburnt cheek a paler hue,
While droops her heavy garland here and there,
Nought can for me those golden gleams renew,
The roses of my shattered wreath repair,
Yet Hope still lives, and oft, to objects fair
In prospect pointing, bids me still pursue
My humble tasks:—I list—but backward turn
Objects for ever lost still struggling to discern.