Classic Poem

BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER .

How with the song of every bird,
And with the scent of every flow'r,
Some recollection dear is stirr'd
Of many a long-departed hour,
Whose course, though shrouded now in night,
Was traced in lines of golden light!

I know not if, when years have cast
Their shadows on life's early dreams,
'T is wise to touch the Hope that 's past,
And re-illume its fading beams:
But, though the future hath its star,
That olden Hope is dearer far.

Of all the present, much is bright;
And in the coming years, I see
A brilliant and a cheering light,
Which burns before me constantly, —
Guiding my steps, through haze and gloom,
To where Fame's turrets proudly loom.

Yet coldly shines it on my brow;
And in my breast it wakes to life
None of the holy feelings now,
With which my boyhood's heart was rife:
It cannot touch that secret spring
Which erst made life so bless'd a thing.

Give me — then give me birds and flow'rs,
Which are the voice and breath of Spring!
For those the songs of life's young hours
With thrilling touch recall and sing, —
And these, with their sweet breath, impart
Old tales, whose memory warms the heart.