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.