Oh! There Are Hours

Oh! There Are Hours

Oh! there are hours whose memory will

With golden drapery deck the soul,

And through her inmost centre thrill,

Awakening bliss beyond control.

Aye, there are hours which paint the world

The very vestibule of heaven,

As if some angel wing, unfurled,

Each wo from off its face had driven.

But ah! how few their numbers are!

How sweet, how transient is their stay;

Like wandering birds with plumage fair,

And songs half sung, they float away.

Yet e'en to me one hour remains,

Which memory long has made divine;

Its glorious birth, its after pains,

With all its joys, its woes, are mine.

One eye lent radiance to that hour,

One voice is sweetest notes did pour -

And whilst I trembled 'neath their power,

I only prayed to feel it more.

* * * * * *

I meet no more that lustrous eye,

That dulcet voice to me is hushed -

Nor longer do those lips reply,

From which love's holiest pathos gushed.

That hour has fled, and though the cause

Was deep, I wept not as it passed,

For even then I knew it was

Too sweetly exquisite to last.

Margarette M'Nary

New Series 1:22, p. 4

1840.08.01