Many a league of salt sea rolls Between us, yet I think our souls, Dear friend, are still as closely tied As when we wander'd side by side, Some seven years gone, in that fair land Where I was born. As hand in hand We lived the showery spring away, And, when the sunny earth was gay With all its blossoms, still together We pass'd the pleasant summer weather, We little thought the time would come, When, from a trans-Atlantic home, My voice should greet you lovingly Across the deep dividing sea. Oh, friend! my heart is sad: 'tis strange, As I sit musing on the change That has come o'er my fate, and cast A longing look upon the past, That pleasant time comes back again So freshly to my heart and brain, That I half think the things I see Are but a dream, and I shall be Lying beside you, when I wake, Upon the lawn beneath the brake, With the hazel copse behind my head, And the new-mown fields before me spread. It is just twilight: that sweet time Is short-lived in this radiant clime,-- Where the bright day, and night more bright, Upon the horizon's verge unite, Nor leave those hours of ray serene, In which we think of what has been: And it is well; for here no eye Turns to the distant days gone by: They have no legendary lore Of deeds of glory done of yore,-- No knightly marvel-haunted years, The nursery tales of adult ears: The busy present, bright to come, Of all their thoughts make up the sum: Little their little past they heed; Therefore of twilight have no need. Yet wherefore write I thus? In the short span Of narrow life doled out to every man, Though he but reach the threshold of the track, Where from youth's better path, strikes out the worse, If he has breathed so long, nor once look'd back, He has not borne life's load, nor known God's curse. And yet, but for that glance that o'er and o'er Goes tearfully, where we shall go no more; Courting the sunny spots, where, for a day, Our bark has found a harbour on its way; O! but for this, this power of conjuring Hours, days, and years into the magic ring, Bidding them yield the show of happiness, To make our real misery seem less, Life would be dreary. But these memories start, Sometimes, unbidden on the mourner's heart; Unwish'd, unwelcome, round his thoughts they cling,-- In vain flung off, still dimly gathering, Like melancholy ghosts, upon the path Where he goes sadly, seeking only death.