| Poem: |
There is an hour, a pensive hour;
(and oh! How dear its soothing pow'r!)
It is, when twilight spreads her veil,
and steals along the silent dale;
'tis when the fading blossoms close,
when all is silence and repose;
then memory wakes, and loves to mourn,
for days—that never shall return!
There is a strain, a plaintive strain,
the source of joy and yet of pain;
it is the song, whose dying measure,
some friend belov'd has heard with pleasure;
some friend—who ne'er again may hear,
the melting lay, to memory dear;
ah! Then, her magic spells restore,
visions of blissful days no more!
There is a tear of sweet relief,
a tear—of rapture and of grief;
the feeling heart alone can know
what soft emotions bid it flow!
It is when memory charms the mind,
with tender images refin'd;
'tis when her balmy spells restore,
departed friends, and joys no more!
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