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With lorn delight the scene I view"d,
My infant hopes and fears
Of retrospective years.
And still, in Memory's twilight bowers,
With mellowing tints, portray
For ever fall'n away.
Till youth's delirious dream is o'er,
The future good to find;
For bliss we look behind.
THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG
O When shall I visit the land of my birth,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains,
When shall I return to that lowly retreat,
My father, my m ither,
My sister, my brother,
This shadow on the Dial's face,
That steals from day to day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments, and months, and years away; This shadow, which, in every clime,
Since light and motion first began,
What is it ?—Mortal Man!
Yet, in its calm career,
And still through each succeeding year,
Nor only o'er the Dial's face,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
MONTGOMERY S POEMS.
From hoary rock, and aged tree,
From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls,
From every blade of grass it falls;
The scythe of Time destroys,
O'er evanescent joys;
Then Time, the Conqueror, will suspend
His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb,
Each frail beholder's doom.
Though Time's triumphant flight be shown,
Points from the churchyard stone.
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD
Two Roses, on one slender spray,
In sweet communion grew,
And drank the evening dew;
Through clouds and sunshine, storms and showers,
They open'd into bloom,
Their beauty and perfume;
But soon their summer splendour pass'd.
They faded in the wind,
The loveliest of their kind,
When thus of all their honour shorn,
The bud unfolding rose,
From dawn to sunrise glows,
My friends! in youth's romantic prime,
The golden age of man,
Life's little less'ning span;
Your hours as innocent as theirs!
And in the infant bud that blows
In your encircling arms,
The pledge of future charms,
Till, planted in that realm of rest,
Where Roses never die,
Beneath a stormless sky,