THE PILGRIMAGE.

For many a year we wandered over hill and dale and mountain, For ever pressing onward till we’re nearly worn and old: Searching for some spot Elysian where the poets’ crystal fountain Sings its songs of calm contentment in a valley draped with gold: Where the flowers bloom for ever ’neath the sun’s life-giving kisses, But never droop ’neath thirsty skies or feel the winter’s chill: Where roses wreath an arbour where no fatal adder hisses, And the promise of our youthful dreams our later days fulfil. Then the purple flush of morning thrilled our careless hearts with pleasure, And the sunbeams shooting downward with our spirit shared their glow: Once every bell and buttercup that blossomed was a treasure— In those days that we have dreamed of, in the misty long-ago. But the joys of life would pall upon the heart that they for ever, Unbroken by a shadow, lit with one eternal glare; And the bonds of love are strengthened by the thought that they may sever, And are hallowed in the memory of lives and loves that were. The ropes of sand that bound us then appeared so deftly woven That we noticed not each single grain the breezes swept away, Nor underneath the robe of Beauty, silken-cased, the cloven Hoof of Time, that swept the garlands into ruin and decay.