Written In An Album.

Judge we of coming, by the by-past, years,     And still can Hope, the siren, soothe our fears?     Cheated, deceived, our cherished day-dreams o'er,     We cling the closer, and we trust the more.     Oh, who can say there's bliss in the review     Of hours, when Hope with fairy fingers drew     A magic sketch of "rapture yet to be,"     A rainbow horizon, a life of glee!     The world all bright before us vivid scene     Of cloudless sunshine and of fadeless green;     A treacherous picture of our coming years,     Bright in prospective welcomed but with tears.     How false the view, a backward glance will tell!     A tale of visions wrecked, of broken spell,     Of valued hearts estranged or careless grown,     Affection's links dissevered or unknown;     Of joys, deemed fadeless, gone to swift decay,     And love's broad circle dwindled half away;     Of early graves of friends who, one by one,     Leave us at last to journey on alone.     Turn to the home of childhood hallowed spot,     Through life's vicissitudes still unforgot;     The sacred hearth deserted now is found,     Or unloved stranger-forms are circling round.     In the dear hall, whose sounds were all our own,     Are other voices, other accents known;     And where our early friends? A starting tear     And the rude headstone promptly answer, "Here."     Thus will compare Hope's sketch of bliss to be     With the undreamed of, sad reality;     Yet this and more the afflicted heart may bear,     If Faith, celestial visitant, be there,     Whispering of greener shores, of purer skies,     Of flowers unfading, love that never dies,     A glimpse of joy to come in mercy given,     The eternal sunshine of approving Heaven.