Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
Lines Written In Rome On My Birth Day,
LINES WRITTEN IN ROME ON MY BIRTH DAY ,
MARCH 12 . I cannot smile as once I smiled , And pass the hours in idle mirth , Or welcome back as when a child , The day ' s return that gave me birth .
I cannot drain the flowing wine , Or laugh to hear the song and jest , Music and mirth seem out of time , And wine hath lost its wonted zest . 1 wander here in love ' s own clime , Bright eyes around my path are beaming , Beauty and pleasure might be mine
, Yet both are now as worthless seeming . Oh , why have beauty , mirth , and wine , And music pow ' r to charm no more ? Why are the spells men call divine , Life ' s young romance and day dream o ' er ? It is not that my days are old ,
Summer yet fingers on my brow ; It is not that my heart is cold—It ' s pulse beat never warm as now . It is that those who with me smiled , Have now nor smile or thought for me ; The ties which bound me when a child , Passion and folly have set free .
It is that those who shared my wine , And to the song its music gave , Whose hands were fondly pressed to mine , Now slumber in the peaceful grave . The eyes , whose rays beam'd through the night , ' Whose glance ' twas Paradise to see , Still brightly flash in beauty ' s light , Still beam with love—but not for me .
And life is now a barren waste : A wither'd tree that ne ' er can bloom , My heart hath not one resting place , Or ark of refuge—but the tomb . I cannot smile—I'll not repine , Though life resumes each gift it gave . My birth-day , like the hand of Time , Marks my glad progress to the grave . J . F . S .
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
Lines Written In Rome On My Birth Day,
LINES WRITTEN IN ROME ON MY BIRTH DAY ,
MARCH 12 . I cannot smile as once I smiled , And pass the hours in idle mirth , Or welcome back as when a child , The day ' s return that gave me birth .
I cannot drain the flowing wine , Or laugh to hear the song and jest , Music and mirth seem out of time , And wine hath lost its wonted zest . 1 wander here in love ' s own clime , Bright eyes around my path are beaming , Beauty and pleasure might be mine
, Yet both are now as worthless seeming . Oh , why have beauty , mirth , and wine , And music pow ' r to charm no more ? Why are the spells men call divine , Life ' s young romance and day dream o ' er ? It is not that my days are old ,
Summer yet fingers on my brow ; It is not that my heart is cold—It ' s pulse beat never warm as now . It is that those who with me smiled , Have now nor smile or thought for me ; The ties which bound me when a child , Passion and folly have set free .
It is that those who shared my wine , And to the song its music gave , Whose hands were fondly pressed to mine , Now slumber in the peaceful grave . The eyes , whose rays beam'd through the night , ' Whose glance ' twas Paradise to see , Still brightly flash in beauty ' s light , Still beam with love—but not for me .
And life is now a barren waste : A wither'd tree that ne ' er can bloom , My heart hath not one resting place , Or ark of refuge—but the tomb . I cannot smile—I'll not repine , Though life resumes each gift it gave . My birth-day , like the hand of Time , Marks my glad progress to the grave . J . F . S .