Yes, I have treasures—not of gold or silver,
Yet they are hoarded with a miser's care;
Cherished and loved more tenderly and fondly
Than purest gems, or jewels rich and rare.

Only a scrap of paper, old and faded,
Only some withered rose-leaves, sere and dry;
And one long tress of hair, all bright and golden,
Dear relics of the happy days gone by.

Well I remember that long, dreamy summer,
With all its sunshine and its cloudless days;
The pleasant rambles through the lanes at even,
When earth was glowing in the sunset rays.

And when the Autumn, in his mellow splendour,
Clothed field and forest in autumnal dyes,
'Twas sweet to wander in the still, weird twilight,
And watch the moon ascend the eastern skies.

Oh! blissful hours! ah, vows so softly spoken,
Ye held a subtle witchery for me;
I dreamed a heart of love and trust unbroken
Was mine—and mine alone—through time to be.

Alas! not mine that blossom that I cherished,
And hoped would bloom through all the coming years;
Death's chill hand fell upon it, and it perished,
And left with me but memory and tears!

Oh, woods! though Autumn left you bare and leafless,
Spring has returned, and brought you life and mirth;
But the dead dream of youth's bright golden morning
Of love and beauty, can it wake to birth?

It cannot be; the times that have departed,
The days of gladness, can return no more;
And I am lonely left and broken-hearted,
Like some sad exile on a foreign shore,—

Who, gazing backwards, through the years can picture
A time when love and friendship were his own;
Then turning to the present, lone and cheerless,
Finds all his happiness in life is gone.

So, now, life's evening shadows, grim and dreary,
In deepest gloom, are round my pathway shed;
The beams of hope are growing dim and weary,
And all that once was bright is cold and dead!

Oh, long-lost love! the gloomy years are fleeting,
Through life's dark dream they ever hurry fast;
Great waves upon the brink of Time they're meeting,
And, mingling, rush to form the shadowy Past!