THE MOTHER of the Muses, we are taught, br Is Memory: she has left me; they remain, br And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing br About the summer days, my loves of old. br Alas! alas! is all I can reply. br Memory has left with me that name alone, br Harmonious name, which other bards may sing, br But her bright image in my darkest hour br Comes back, in vain comes back, call’d or uncall’d. br Forgotten are the names of visitors br Ready to press my hand but yesterday; br Forgotten are the names of earlier friends br Whose genial converse and glad countenance br Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye; br To these, when I have written and besought br Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone br Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain. br A blessing wert thou, O oblivion, br If thy stream carried only weeds away, br But vernal and autumnal flowers alike br It hurries down to wither on the strand.