  Still falls the boatman's oar, Faint comes the ev'ning bell, As from off the dusky shore The cool night-breezes swell: How sweet at such an hour, The yellow sands to rove; The spirit wrapt within the power Of dreaming love. How sweet, when youth has gone, And manhood's eye looks dim, To waken up in Memory's tone, Love's own vesper hymn; To bring back every note, In early hours we knew, And, as old voices round us float, Believe them true. Thus shall the buried joys, The dreams, the hopes, the fears, The all that cruel time destroys, Come back to bless our years: Thus shall the affections come, Our raptures to restore; Thus shall the sad heart bloom In youth once more. G. B. Singleton. |
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