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<h2>PAST DAYS.</h2>
<p>'Tis strange to think there WAS a time<br/>
When mirth was not an empty name,<br/>
When laughter really cheered the heart,<br/>
And frequent smiles unbidden came,<br/>
And tears of grief would only flow<br/>
In sympathy for others' woe;<br/>
<br/>
When speech expressed the inward thought,<br/>
And heart to kindred heart was bare,<br/>
And summer days were far too short<br/>
For all the pleasures crowded there;<br/>
And silence, solitude, and rest,<br/>
Now welcome to the weary breast—<br/>
<br/>
Were all unprized, uncourted then—<br/>
And all the joy one spirit showed,<br/>
The other deeply felt again;<br/>
And friendship like a river flowed,<br/>
Constant and strong its silent course,<br/>
For nought withstood its gentle force:<br/>
<br/>
When night, the holy time of peace,<br/>
Was dreaded as the parting hour;<br/>
When speech and mirth at once must cease,<br/>
And silence must resume her power;<br/>
Though ever free from pains and woes,<br/>
She only brought us calm repose.<br/>
<br/>
And when the blessed dawn again<br/>
Brought daylight to the blushing skies,<br/>
We woke, and not RELUCTANT then,<br/>
To joyless LABOUR did we rise;<br/>
But full of hope, and glad and gay,<br/>
We welcomed the returning day.<br/></p>
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