The Golden Year.

Come, sunny looks, that in my memory throng ;1
Come ! bringing back some happy afternoon ;2
Come ! for your gentle presence is the song3
Without which Nature hums a lonely tune.4
Oh, light feet, tread the narrow path once more ;5
Come to my cry, fair forms, and, resting near,6
On the dear rocks where you have sat before,7
A little while renew the golden year.8
Come to this spot, whence we so oft have viewed9
The gleam of waves, rock-broken, round the bay,10
Come once more, or wild grasses will intrude,11
And clasp their hands across the narrow way ;12
Come, for the place is fair as land of dream,13
And, through the rushes, winds hum mournfully,14
As if just moved in slumber, and the stream15
Still struggles through its cresses to the sea.16
’Tis vain to call ; I once the strain have heard17
That lacked no note to make the tune complete,18
Once, wakened by the touch of some kind word,19
I found a garden fair, with flowers sweet ;20
There, plucking fruits from many a drooping bough,21
I stayed, untroubled by foreboding doubt ;22
Once have I passed the golden year, and now23
I see it far back, like a star going out.24
The daisies of the golden year are dead,25
Its sunsets will not touch the west again,26
Its glories are removed, its blessings fled,27
And only fully known when sought in vain ;28
The same Sweet voices I shall never hear,29
For the fair forms that once my pathway crossed30
Are gone, with waters of the golden year31
That now are mingled in the sea and lost.32