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