There Is An Hour, A Pensive Hour

THERE is an hour, a pensive hour; (And oh! how dear its soothing pow'r!) It is, when twilight spreads her veil, And steals along the silent dale; 'Tis when the fading blossoms close, When all is silence and repose; Then memory wakes, and loves to mourn, For days—that never shall return! There is a strain, a plaintive strain, The source of joy and yet of pain; It is the song, whose dying measure, Some friend belov'd has heard with pleasure; Some friend—who ne'er again may hear, The melting lay, to memory dear; Ah! then, her magic spells restore, Visions of blissful days no more! There is a tear of sweet relief, A tear—of rapture and of grief; The feeling heart alone can know What soft emotions bid it flow! It is when memory charms the mind, With tender images refin'd; 'Tis when her balmy spells restore, Departed friends, and joys no more!