Perceval Gibbon - "Vrouw Grobelaar and Her Leading Cases"

Benedetto Croce - "Aesthetic as Science of Expression and General Linguistic"

A. A. Milne - "First Plays"

Louis Joseph Vance - "The Brass Bowl"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

T >> Thomas Moore et al >> The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore




She stops--she listens--_can_ it be?
Alas, in vain her ears would 'scape it--
It _is "Di tanti palpiti"_
As plain as English bow can scrape it.

"Courage!" however--in she goes,
With her best, sweeping country grace;
When, ah too true, her worst of foes,
Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.

Oh for the lyre, or violin,
Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore,
To sing the rage these nymphs were in,
Their looks and language, airs and trickery.

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face
(The beau-ideal of French beauty),
A band-box thing, all art and lace
Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.

Her flounces, fresh from _Victorine_--
From _Hippolyte_, her rouge and hair--
Her poetry, from _Lamartine_--
Her morals, from--the Lord knows where.

And, when she danced--so slidingly,
So near the ground she plied her art,
You'd swear her mother-earth and she
Had made a compact ne'er to part.

Her face too, all the while, sedate,
No signs of life or motion showing.
Like a bright _pendule's_ dial-plate--
So still, you'd hardly think 'twas _going_.

Full fronting her stood Country Dance--
A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know
For English, at a single glance--
English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little _gauche_, 'tis fair to own,
And rather given to skips and bounces;
Endangering thereby many a gown,
And playing, oft, the devil with flounces.

Unlike _Mamselle_--who would prefer
(As morally a lesser ill)
A thousand flaws of character,
To one vile rumple of a frill.

No rouge did She of Albion wear;
Let her but run that two-heat race
She calls a _Set_, not Dian e'er
Came rosier from the woodland chase.

Such was the nymph, whose soul had in't
Such anger now--whose eyes of blue
(Eyes of that bright, victorious tint,
Which English maids call "Waterloo")--

Like summer lightnings, in the dusk
Of a warm evening, flashing broke.
While--to the tune of "Money Musk,"[1]
Which struck up now--she proudly spoke--

"Heard you that strain--that joyous strain?
"'Twas such as England loved to hear,
"Ere thou and all thy frippery train,
"Corrupted both her foot and ear--

"Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands,
"Presumed, in sight of all beholders,
"To lay his rude, licentious hands
"On virtuous English backs and shoulders--

"Ere times and morals both grew bad,
"And, yet unfleeced by funding block-heads,
"Happy John Bull not only _had_,
"But danced to, 'Money in both pockets.'

"Alas, the change!--Oh, Londonderry,
"Where is the land could 'scape disasters,
"With _such_ a Foreign Secretary,
"Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters?

"Woe to ye, men of ships and shops!
"Rulers of day-books and of waves!
"Quadrilled, on one side, into fops,
"And drilled, on t'other, into slaves!

"Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen,
"Like pigeons, trussed for exhibition,
"With elbows, _a la crapaudine_,
"And feet, in--God knows what position;

"Hemmed in by watchful chaperons,
"Inspectors of your airs and graces,
"Who intercept all whispered tones,
"And read your telegraphic faces;

"Unable with the youth adored,
"In that grim _cordon_ of Mammas,
"To interchange one tender word,
"Tho' whispered but in _queue-de-chats_.

"Ah did you know how blest we ranged,
"Ere vile Quadrille usurpt the fiddle--
"What looks in _setting_ were exchanged,
"What tender words in _down the middle_;

"How many a couple, like the wind,
"Which nothing in its course controls,
Left time and chaperons far behind,
"And gave a loose to legs and souls;

How matrimony throve--ere stopt
"By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting--
"How charmingly one's partner propt
"The important question in _poussetteing_.

"While now, alas--no sly advances--
"No marriage hints--all goes on badly--
"'Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances,
"We, girls, are at a discount sadly.

"Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell)
"Declares not half so much is made
"By Licences--and he must know well--
"Since vile Quadrilling spoiled the trade."

She ceased--tears fell from every Miss--
She now had touched the true pathetic:--
One such authentic fact as this,
Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

Instant the cry was "Country Dance!"
And the maid saw with brightening face,
The Steward of the night advance,
And lead her to her birthright place.

The fiddles, which awhile had ceased,
Now tuned again their summons sweet,
And, for one happy night, at least,
Old England's triumph was complete.


[1] An old English country dance.






GAZEL.


Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh;
Already, in the unopened flowers
That sleep around us, Fancy's eye
Can see the blush of future bowers;
And joy it brings to thee and me,
My own beloved Maami!

The streamlet frozen on its way,
To feed the marble Founts of Kings,
Now, loosened by the vernal ray,
Upon its path exulting springs--
As doth this bounding heart to thee,
My ever blissful Maami!

Such bright hours were not made to stay;
Enough if they awhile remain,
Like Irem's bowers, that fade away.
From time to time, and come again.
And life shall all one Irem be
For us, my gentle Maami.

O haste, for this impatient heart,
Is like the rose in Yemen's vale,
That rends its inmost leaves apart
With passion for the nightingale;
So languishes this soul for thee,
My bright and blushing Maami!






LINES ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., OF DUBLIN.


If ever life was prosperously cast,
If ever life was like the lengthened flow
Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,
'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife.
The simple heart above all worldly wiles;
Light wit that plays along the calm of life,
And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower,
Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,
But, like the dew, with gradual silent power,
Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves
And brightens every gift by fortune given;
That, wander where it will with those it loves,
Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:

All these were his.--Oh, thou who read'st this stone,
When for thyself, thy children, to the sky
Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,
That ye like him may live, like him may die!






GENIUS AND CRITICISM.


_scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur_.
SENECA.


Of old, the Sultan Genius reigned,
As Nature meant, supreme alone;
With mind unchekt, and hands unchained,
His views, his conquests were his own.

But power like his, that digs its grave
With its own sceptre, could not last;
So Genius' self became the slave
Of laws that Genius' self had past.

As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate,
Was, ever after, doomed to wear it:
His nods, his struggles all too late--
"_Qui semel jussit, semper paret_."

To check young Genius' proud career,
The slaves who now his throne invaded,
Made Criticism his prime Vizir,
And from that hour his glories faded.

Tied down in Legislation's school,
Afraid of even his own ambition,
His very victories were by rule,
And he was great but by permission.

His most heroic deeds--the same,
That dazzled, when spontaneous actions--
Now, done by law, seemed cold and tame,
And shorn of all their first attractions.

If he but stirred to take the air,
Instant, the Vizir's Council sat--
"Good Lord, your Highness can't go there--
"Bless me, your Highness can't do that."

If, loving pomp, he chose to buy
Rich jewels for his diadem,
"The taste was bad, the price was high--
"A flower were simpler than a gem."

To please them if he took to flowers--
"What trifling, what unmeaning things!
"Fit for a woman's toilet hours,
"But not at all the style for Kings."

If, fond of his domestic sphere,
He played no more the rambling comet--
"A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear,
"But, as for great or brave, far from it."

Did he then look o'er distant oceans,
For realms more worthy to enthrone him?--
"Saint Aristotle, what wild notions!
"Serve a '_ne exeat regno_' on him."

At length, their last and worst to do,
They round him placed a guard of watchmen,
Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue
Turned up with yellow--chiefly Scotchmen;

To dog his footsteps all about
Like those in Longwood's prison grounds,
Who at Napoleon's heels rode out,
For fear the Conqueror should break bounds.

Oh for some Champion of his power,
Some _Ultra_ spirit, to set free,
As erst in Shakespeare's sovereign hour,
The thunders of his Royalty!--

To vindicate his ancient line,
The first, the true, the only one,
Of Right eternal and divine,
That rules beneath the blessed sun.






TO LADY JERSEY.

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM.

Written at Middleton.


Oh albums, albums, how I dread
Your everlasting scrap and scrawl!
How often wish that from the dead
Old Omar would pop forth his head,
And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band,
The blushless blues, who, day and night,
Like duns in doorways, take their stand,
To waylay bards, with book in hand,
Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"

So might I shun the shame and pain,
That o'er me at this instant come,
When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain,
Knocks at the portal of my brain,
And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"

_November, 1828_.






TO THE SAME.

ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM.


No wonder bards, both high and low,
From Byron down to ***** and me,
Should seek the fame which all bestow
On him whose task is praising thee.

Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes,
At once all errors are forgiven;
As even old Sternhold still we prize,
Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven.






AT NIGHT.[1]


At night, when all is still around.
How sweet to hear the distant sound
Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
"'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
Tho' still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress.
With those we love exchanged at night!


[1] These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a
Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.






TO LADY HOLLAND.

ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OP A SNUFF-BOX.


Gift of the Hero, on his dying day,
To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh;
Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,
This relic lights up on her generous eye,
Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay
A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.

_Paris, July_, 1821






EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA.


Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,
Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and--all that,
And wondering much what little knavish sprite
Had put it first in women's heads to write:--
Sudden I saw--as in some witching dream--
A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam,
From whose quick-opening folds of azure light
Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright
As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head,
Some sunny morning from a violet bed.
"Bless me!" I starting cried "what imp are you?"--
"A small he-devil, Ma'am--my name BAS BLEU--
"A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading;
"'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding,
"The reigning taste in chemistry and caps,
"The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps,
"And when the waltz has twirled her giddy brain
"With metaphysics twirl it back again!"
I viewed him, as he spoke--his hose were blue,
His wings--the covers of the last Review--
Cerulean, bordered with a jaundice hue,
And tinselled gayly o'er, for evening wear,
Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair.
"Inspired by me--(pursued this waggish Fairy)--
"That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary,
"Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse,
"Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes.
"For me the eyes of young Camilla shine,
"And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine;
"For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking,
"Looks wise--the pretty soul!--and _thinks_ she's thinking.
"By my advice Miss Indigo attends
"Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends,
"''Pon honor!--(_mimics_)--nothing can surpass the plan
"'Of that professor--(_trying to recollect_)--psha! that memory-man--
"'That--what's his name?--him I attended lately--
"''Pon honor, he improved _my_ memory greatly.'"
Here curtsying low, I asked the blue-legged sprite,
What share he had in this our play to-night.
'Nay, there--(he cried)--there I am guiltless quite--
"What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time
"When no one waltzed and none but monks could rhyme;
"When lovely woman, all unschooled and wild,
"Blushed without art, and without culture smiled--
"Simple as flowers, while yet unclassed they shone,
"Ere Science called their brilliant world her own,
"Ranged the wild, rosy things in learned orders,
"And filled with Greek the garden's blushing borders!--
"No, no--your gentle Inas will not do--
"To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue,
"I'll come--(_pointing downwards_)--you understand--till then adieu!"

And _has_ the sprite been here! No--jests apart--
Howe'er man rules in science and in art,
The sphere of woman's glories is the heart.
And, if our Muse have sketched with pencil true
The wife--the mother--firm, yet gentle too--
Whose soul, wrapt up in ties itself hath spun,
Trembles, if touched in the remotest one;
Who loves--yet dares even Love himself disown,
When Honor's broken shaft supports his throne:
If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils,
Dire as they are, of Critics and--Blue Devils.






THE DAY-DREAM.[1]


They both were husht, the voice, the chords,--
I heard but once that witching lay;
And few the notes, and few the words.
My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remembered here and there,
Like echoes of some broken strain;--
Links of a sweetness lost in air,
That nothing now could join again.

Even these, too, ere the morning, fled;
And, tho' the charm still lingered on,
That o'er each sense her song had shed,
The song itself was faded, gone;--

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,
On summer days, ere youth had set;
Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,
Tho' _what_ they were we now forget.

In vain with hints from other strains
I wooed this truant air to come--
As birds are taught on eastern plains
To lure their wilder kindred home.

In vain:--the song that Sappho gave,
In dying, to the mournful sea,
Not muter slept beneath the wave
Than this within my memory.

At length, one morning, as I lay
In that half-waking mood when dreams
Unwillingly at last gave way
To the full truth of daylight's beams,

A face--the very face, methought,
From which had breathed, as from a shrine
Of song and soul, the notes I sought--
Came with its music close to mine;

And sung the long-lost measure o'er,--
Each note and word, with every tone
And look, that lent it life before,--
All perfect, all again my own!

Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest
They meet again, each widowed sound
Thro' memory's realm had winged in quest
Of its sweet mate, till all were found.

Nor even in waking did the clew,
Thus strangely caught, escape again;
For never lark its matins knew
So well as now I knew this strain.

And oft when memory's wondrous spell
Is talked of in our tranquil bower,
I sing this lady's song, and tell
The vision of that morning hour.


[1] In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse;
and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the
power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.






SONG.


Where is the heart that would not give
Years of drowsy days and nights,
One little hour, like this, to live--
Full, to the brim, of life's delights?
Look, look around,
This fairy ground,
With love-lights glittering o'er;
While cups that shine
With freight divine
Go coasting round its shore.

Hope is the dupe of future hours,
Memory lives in those gone by;
Neither can see the moment's flowers
Springing up fresh beneath the eye,
Wouldst thou, or thou,
Forego what's _now_,
For all that Hope may say?
No--Joy's reply,
From every eye,
Is, "Live we while we may,"






SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.


_haud curat Hippoclides_.
ERASM. _Adag_.


To those we love we've drank tonight;
But now attend and stare not,
While I the ampler list recite
Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.

For royal men, howe'er they frown,
If on their fronts they bear not
That noblest gem that decks a crown,
The People's Love--WE CARE NOT.

For slavish men who bend beneath
A despot yoke, yet dare not
Pronounce the will whose very breath
Would rend its links--WE CARE NOT.

For priestly men who covet sway
And wealth, tho' they declare not;
Who point, like finger-posts, the way
They never go--WE CARE NOT.

For martial men who on their sword,
Howe'er it conquers, wear not
The pledges of a soldier's word,
Redeemed and pure--WE CARE NOT.

For legal men who plead for wrong.
And, tho' to lies they swear not,
Are hardly better than the throng
Of those who do--WE CARE NOT.

For courtly men who feed upon
The land, like grubs, and spare not
The smallest leaf where they can sun
Their crawling limbs--WE CARE NOT.

For wealthy men who keep their mines
In darkness hid, and share not
The paltry ore with him who pines
In honest want--WE CARE NOT.

For prudent men who hold the power
Of Love aloof, and bare not
Their hearts in any guardless hour
To Beauty's shaft--WE CARE NOT.

For all, in short, on land or sea,
In camp or court, who _are_ not,
Who never _were_, or e'er _will_ be
Good men and true--WE CARE NOT.






ANNE BOLEYN.

TRANSLATION FROM THE METRICAL

"_Histoire d'Anne Boleyn."_


_"S'elle estoit belle et de taille elegante,
Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante,
Lesquelz scavoit bien conduyre a propos
En les lenant quelquefoys en repos;
Aucune foys envoyant en message
Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage_."


Much as her form seduced the sight,
Her eyes could even more surely woo;
And when and how to shoot their light
Into men's hearts full well she knew.
For sometimes in repose she hid
Their rays beneath a downcast lid;
And then again, with wakening air,
Would send their sunny glances out,
Like heralds of delight, to bear
Her heart's sweet messages about.






THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS.

FROM DANTE.


_Nell ora, credo, che dell'oriente
Prima raggio nel monte Citerea,
Che di fuoco d'amor par sempre dente,
Giovane e bella in sogno mi parea
Donna vedere andar per una landa
Cogliendo flori; e cantando dicea ;--
Sappia qualunque'l mio nome dimanda,
Ch'io mi son Lia, e vo movendo 'ntorno
Le belle mani a farmi una ghirlanda--
Per piacermi allo specchio qui m'adorno;
Ma mia suora Rachel mai non si smaga
Dal suo ammiraglio, e siede tutto il giorno_.

_Ell' e de'suoi begli occhi veder vaga,
Com' io dell'adornarmi con le mani;
Lei lo vodere e me l'ovrare appaga_.

DANTE, _Purg. Canto xxvii_.


'Twas eve's soft hour, and bright, above.
The star of beauty beamed,
While lulled by light so full of love,
In slumber thus I dreamed--
Methought, at that sweet hour,
A nymph came o'er the lea,
Who, gathering many a flower,
Thus said and sung to me:--
"Should any ask what Leila loves,
"Say thou, To wreathe her hair
"With flowerets culled from glens and groves,
"Is Leila's only care.

"While thus in quest of flowers rare,
"O'er hill and dale I roam,
"My sister, Rachel, far more fair,
"Sits lone and mute at home.
"Before her glass untiring,
"With thoughts that never stray,
"Her own bright eyes admiring,
"She sits the live-long day;
"While I!--oh, seldom even a look
"Of self salutes my eye;
"My only glass, the limpid brook,
"That shines and passes by."






SOVEREIGN WOMAN.

A BALLAD.


The dance was o'er, yet still in dreams
That fairy scene went on;
Like clouds still flusht with daylight gleams
Tho' day itself is gone.
And gracefully to music's sound,
The same bright nymphs were gliding round;
While thou, the Queen of all, wert there--
The Fairest still, where all were fair.
The dream then changed--in halls of state,
I saw thee high enthroned;
While, ranged around, the wise, the great,
In thee their mistress owned;
And still the same, thy gentle sway
O'er willing subjects won its way--
Till all confest the Right Divine
To rule o'er man was only thine!

But, lo, the scene now changed again--
And borne on plumed steed,
I saw thee o'er the battle-plain
Our land's defenders lead:
And stronger in thy beauty's charms,
Than man, with countless hosts in arms,
Thy voice, like music, cheered the Free,
Thy very smile was victory!

Nor reign such queens on thrones alone--
In cot and court the same,
Wherever woman's smile is known,
Victoria's still her name.
For tho' she almost blush to reign,
Tho' Love's own flowerets wreath the chain,
Disguise our bondage as we will,
'Tis woman, woman, rules us still.






COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN.

A BALLAD.


Come, play me that simple air again,
I used so to love, in life's young day,
And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then
Were wakened by that sweet lay
The tender gloom its strain
Shed o'er the heart and brow
Grief's shadow without its pain--
Say where, where is it now?
But play me the well-known air once more,
For thoughts of youth still haunt its strain
Like dreams of some far, fairy shore
We never shall see again.

Sweet air, how every note brings back
Some sunny hope, some daydream bright,
That, shining o'er life's early track,
Filled even its tears with light.
The new-found life that came
With love's first echoed vow;--
The fear, the bliss, the shame--
Ah--where, where are they now?
But, still the same loved notes prolong,
For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay,
In dreams of youth and love and song,
To breathe life's hour away.








POEMS FROM THE EPICUREAN

(1827.)






THE VALLEY OF THE NILE.


Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear
And blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere,
Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes
And high-built temples, fit to be the homes
Of mighty gods, and pyramids whose hour
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower!

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make
One theatre of this vast peopled lake,
Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives
Of life and motion, ever moves and lives,
Here, up in the steps of temples, from the wave
Ascending, in procession slow and grave,
Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands
And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands:
While there, rich barks--fresh from those sunny tracts
Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts--
Glide with their precious lading to the sea,
Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory,
Gems from the isle of Meroe, and those grains
Of gold, washed down by Abyssinian rains.

Here, where the waters wind into a bay
Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way
To Sais or Bubastus, among beds
Of lotos flowers that close above their heads,
Push their light barks, and hid as in a bower
Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour,
While haply, not far off, beneath a bank
Of blossoming acacias, many a prank
Is played in the cool current by a train
Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chain
Around two conquerors of the world was cast;
But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.






SONG OF THE TWO CUPBEARERS.


FIRST CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup--Osiris sips
The same in his halls below;
And the same he gives, to cool the lips
Of the dead, who downward go.

Drink of this cup--the water within
Is fresh from Lethe's stream;
'Twill make the past, with all its sin,
And all its pain and sorrows, seem
Like a long forgotten dream;
The pleasure, whose charms
Are steeped in woe;
The knowledge, that harms
The soul to know;

The hope, that bright
As the lake of the waste,
Allures the sight
And mocks the taste;

The love, that binds
Its innocent wreath,
Where the serpent winds
In venom beneath!--

All that of evil or false, by thee
Hath ever been known or seen,
Shalt melt away in this cup, and be
Forgot as it never had been!

SECOND CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup--when Isis led
Her boy of old to the beaming sky,
She mingled a draught divine and said.--
"Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

Thus do I say and sing to thee.
Heir of that boundless heaven on high,
Though frail and fallen and lost thou be,
"Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

* * * * *

And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come,
Dreams of a former, happier day,
When heaven was still the spirit's home,
And her wings had not yet fallen away.

Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot,
That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea,
What once hath been, what now is not.
But oh! what again shall brightly be!"

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