A solemn meaning, which he could not spurn--
And Youth, perchance, may from our fable learn,
That while the beckoning passions woo and sigh,
TIME, with his ready scythe, stands listening by.




Remembrance.[A]


You bid the minstrel strike the lute,
And wake once more a soothing tone--
Alas! its strings, untuned, are mute,
Or only echo moan for moan.

The flowers around it twined are dead,
And those who wreathed them there, are flown;
The spring that gave them bloom is fled,
And winter's frost is o'er them thrown.

Poor lute! forgot 'mid strife and care,
I fain would try thy strings once more,--
Perchance some lingering tone is there--
Some cherished melody of yore.

If flowers that bloom no more are here,
Their odors still around us cling--
And though the loved are lost-still dear,
Their memories may wake the string.