Memory
Brightly
the
sun
of
summer
shone,
Green
fields
and
waving
woods
upon,
And
soft
winds
wandered
by;
Above,
a
sky
of
purest
blue,
Around,
bright
flowers
of
loveliest
hue,
Allured
the
gazer's
eye.
But
what
were
all
these
charms
to
me,
When
one
sweet
breath
of
memory
Came
gently
wafting
by?
I
closed
my
eyes
against
the
day,
And
called
my
willing
soul
away,
From
earth,
and
air,
and
sky;
That
I
might
simply
fancy
there
One
little
flowera
primrose
fair,
Just
opening
into
sight;
As
in
the
days
of
infancy,
An
opening
primrose
seemed
to
me
A
source
of
strange
delight.
Sweet
Memory!
ever
smile
on
me;
Nature's
chief
beauties
spring
from
thee;
Oh,
still
thy
tribute
bring!
Still
make
the
golden
crocus
shine
Among
the
flowers
the
most
divine,
The
glory
of
the
spring.
Still
in
the
wall-flower's
fragrance
dwell;
And
hover
round
the
slight
blue
bell,
My
childhood's
darling
flower.
Smile
on
the
little
daisy
still,
The
buttercup's
bright
goblet
fill
With
all
thy
former
power.
For
ever
hang
thy
dreamy
spell
Round
mountain
star
and
heather
bell,
And
do
not
pass
away
From
sparkling
frost,
or
wreathed
snow,
And
whisper
when
the
wild
winds
blow,
Or
rippling
waters
play.
Is
childhood,
then,
so
all
divine?
Or
Memory,
is
the
glory
thine,
That
haloes
thus
the
past?
Not
all
divine;
its
pangs
of
grief,
(Although,
perchance,
their
stay
be
brief,)
Are
bitter
while
they
last.
Nor
is
the
glory
all
thine
own,
For
on
our
earliest
joys
alone
That
holy
light
is
cast.
With
such
a
ray,
no
spell
of
thine
Can
make
our
later
pleasures
shine,
Though
long
ago
they
passed.
