Years may roll on, and manhood's brow grow cold,
And life's dull winter spread its dark'ning pall
O'er cherish'd hopes; yet time cannot withhold
A precious boon which mem'ry gives to all: -
Fond recollection, when the tale is told
Which forms the record of life's festival,
Recalls the pleasures of youth's opening scene,
And age seems young - rememb'ring what hath been.

Even as children in their happiest hours,
Gath'ring the blossoms which around them grow,
Will sometimes turn and strew the early flowers
Over the grave of one - there lying low -
Who watched their infancy - so we; for ours
Are kindred feelings: we as gently throw
Our mem'ry garlands on the closing grave
Of joys we lov'd - yet, loving, could not save.