A Happy Hour

Oh! what a joy to feel that, in my breast,
The founts of childhood’s vernal fancies lay
Still pure, though heavily and long repress’d
By early-blighted leaves, which o’er their way
Dark summer-storms had heaped. But free, glad play
Once more was given them: to the sunshine’s glow,
And the sweet wood-song’s penetrating flow,
And to the wandering primrose-breath of May,
And the rich hawthorn-odours, forth they sprung.
Oh! not less freshly bright, that now a thought
Of spiritual presence o’er them hung,
And of immortal life! a germ, unwrought
In childhood’s soul to power--now strong, serene,
And full of love and light, colouring the whole blest scene.