The old have had their days of hope,
They worked as through a telescope,
On years to come;—which came and fled,
But left sweet vestiges behind,
In Memory’s heart of hearts enshrined,
The joys of love—the sainted dead.
And Memory stands where Hope once stood,
Musing on the vicissitude
Which in the future blinds the past,
The will be,—has been,—shade on shade
Succeeding,—till time’s scenes are made
A twilight dimly traced at last.
(John Bowring)
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