On the Pleasures of Memory

To him whose soul with strife is rent,
What gladness can remembrance bring ?
The tree that winter storms have bent,
Revives not with the breath of spring ;
And evening sheds her dews in vain,
It will not bud nor bloom again.

Though memory dwell on days of peace,
Our present woes will not be less,
And when our strifes with age increase,
'Twere well to learn forgetfulness.
Oblivion's hand might better try
The heart to soothe — the cheek to dry.

From autumn skies the lightning plays
On many a withered summer bough,
And thus the joy of happier days
Shines on the sorrow-wrinkled brow.
Thus memory loves to wander o'er
The spot where she may dwell no more.