'Tis strange to think there
AS a
When mirth was not an empty name,
When laughter really cheered the heart,
And frequent smiles unbidden came,
And tears of grief would only
In sympathy for others' woe;
When speech expressed the inward thought,
And heart to kindred heart was bare,
And summer days were far too
For all the pleasures crowded there;
And silence, solitude, and rest,
Now welcome to the weary breast—Were all unprized, uncourted then—And all the joy one spirit showed,
The other deeply felt again;
And friendship like a river flowed,
Constant and strong its silent course,
For nought withstood its gentle force:
When night, the holy time of peace,
Was dreaded as the parting hour;
When speech and mirth at once must cease,
And silence must resume her power;
Though ever free from pains and woes,
She only brought us calm repose.
And when the blessed dawn
Brought daylight to the blushing skies,
We woke, and not
NT then,
To joyless
UR did we rise;
But full of hope, and glad and gay,
We welcomed the returning day.
