Hamilton Aïdé

1830.

Remember or Forget.

I.

I

sat beside the streamlet,

I watched the water flow,

As we together watched it

One little year ago;

The soft rain pattered on the leaves,

The April grass was wet,

Ah! folly to remember;—

’T is wiser to forget.

II.

The nightingales made vocal

June’s palace paved with gold;

I watched the rose you gave me

Its warm red heart unfold;

But breath of rose and bird’s song

Were fraught with wild regret.

’T is madness to remember;

’T were wisdom to forget.

III.

I stood among the gold corn,

Alas! no more, I knew,

To gather gleaner’s measure

Of the love that fell from you.

For me, no gracious harvest—

Would God we ne’er had met!

’T is hard, Love, to remember, but

’T is harder to forget.

IV.

The streamlet now is frozen,

The nightingales are fled,

The cornfields are deserted,

And every rose is dead.

I sit beside my lonely fire,

And pray for wisdom yet—

For calmness to remember

Or courage to forget.

Oh, Let Me Dream. From “a Nine Days’ Wonder.”

O

h! let me dream of happy days gone by,

Forgetting sorrows that have come between,

As sunlight gilds some distant summit high,

And leaves the valleys dark that intervene.

The phantoms of remorse that haunt

The soul, are laid beneath that spell;

As, in the music of a chaunt

Is lost the tolling of a bell.

Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by, etc.

In youth, we plucked full many a flower that died,

Dropped on the pathway, as we danced along;

And now, we cherish each poor leaflet dried

In pages which to that dear past belong.

With sad crushed hearts they yet retain

Some semblance of their glories fled;

Like us, whose lineaments remain,

When all the fires of life are dead.

Oh! let me dream, etc.

Love, the Pilgrim. Suggested by a Sketch by E. Burne-Jones.

E

very day a Pilgrim, blindfold,

When the night and morning meet,

Entereth the slumbering city,

Stealeth down the silent street;

Lingereth round some battered doorway,

Leaves unblest some portal grand,

And the walls, where sleep the children,

Toucheth, with his warm young hand.

Love is passing! Love is passing!—

Passing while ye lie asleep:

In your blessèd dreams, O children,

Give him all your hearts to keep!

Blindfold is this Pilgrim, Maiden.

Though to-day he touched thy door,

He may pass it by to-morrow—

—Pass it—to return no more.

Let us then with prayers entreat him,—

Youth! her heart, whose coldness grieves,

May one morn by Love be softened;

Prize the treasure that he leaves.

Love is passing! Love is passing!

All, with hearts to hope and pray,

Bid this pilgrim touch the lintels

Of your doorways every day.