  At length our pens must find repose! With verse, or with poetic prose, Filled is each nook; And these poor little rhymes must close Our pleasant book! Its every page is filled at last! When on these leaves my eyes I cast, Dull thoughts to cheer, How many memories of the past Seem written here! Those who behold a river run Bright glittering in the noonday sun, See not its source; And few can know whence has begun Its giddy course! And thus the feelings that gave rise To many a verse that meets their eyes How few can tell! Yet for those feelings gone, I prize And love it well! Some stanzas were composed to grace An hour of pleasure,—some to chase Sad care away; And some to help on time's slow pace Which would delay! In some, we trace affection's tone To friends then kind,—now colder grown By force or art: In some, the shade of hopes, now gone, Then, next the heart! Such fancies with each line I weave, And thus our book I cannot leave Without a sigh! Fond recollections make me grieve To lay it by! How other hands, perchance, than mine, A fairer wreath for it might twine, 'Twere vain to tell; I can but say, in one brief line, Dear Book, Farewell! |
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