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birth—

       Struck deep its root, and lifted high

       Its green boughs in the breezy sky.

       ​⁠"But, I'll not fear, I will not weep

       For those whose bodies rest in sleep,—

       I know there is a blessed shore,

      ⁠Opening its ports for me and mine;

       And, gazing Time's wide waters o'er,

      ⁠I weary for that land divine,

       Where we were born, where you and I

       Shall meet our dearest, when we die;

       From suffering and corruption free,

       Restored into the Deity."

      ⁠"Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child!

      ⁠And wiser than thy sire;

       And worldly tempests, raging wild,

      ⁠Shall strengthen thy desire—

       Thy fervent hope, through storm and foam,

      ⁠Through wind and ocean's roar,

       To reach, at last, the eternal home,

      ⁠The steadfast, changeless shore!"

      Ellis.

      ​

A REMINISCENCE.

       Table of Contents

      Yes, thou art gone! and never more

       Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;

       But I may pass the old church door,

       And pace the floor that covers thee,

       ​May stand upon the cold, damp stone,

       And think that, frozen, lies below

       The lightest heart that I have known,

       The kindest I shall ever know.

       Yet, though I cannot see thee more,

       'Tis still a comfort to have seen;

       And though thy transient life is o'er,

       'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;

       To think a soul so near divine,

       Within a form, so angel fair,

       United to a heart like thine,

       Has gladdened once our humble sphere.

      Acton.

      ​

MEMENTOS.

       Table of Contents

      Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves

       Of cabinets, shut up for years,

       What a strange task we've set ourselves!

       How still the lonely room appears!

       How strange this mass of ancient treasures,

       Mementos of past pains and pleasures;

       ​These volumes, clasped with costly stone,

       With print all faded, gilding gone;

       These fans of leaves from Indian trees—

       These crimson shells, from Indian seas—

       These tiny portraits, set in rings—

       Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things;

       Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith,

       And worn till the receiver's death,

       Now stored with cameos, china, shells,

       In this old closet's dusty cells.

       I scarcely think, for ten long years,

       A hand has touched these relics old;

       And, coating each, slow-formed, appears,

       The growth of green and antique mould.

       All in this house is mossing over;

       All is unused, and dim, and damp;

       Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover—

       Bereft for years of fire and lamp.

       The sun, sometimes in summer, enters

       The casements, with reviving ray;

       But the long rains of many winters

       Moulder the very walls away.

       And outside all is ivy, clinging

       To chimney, lattice, gable grey;

       Scarcely one little red rose springing

       Through the green moss can force its way.

       ​Unscared, the daw, and starling nestle,

       Where the tall turret rises high,

       And winds alone come near to rustle

       The thick leaves where their cradles lie.

       I sometimes think, when late at even

       I climb the stair reluctantly,

       Some shape that should be well in heaven,

       Or ill elsewhere, will pass by me.

       I fear to see the very faces,

       Familiar thirty years ago,

       Even in the old accustomed places

       Which look so cold and gloomy now.

       I've come, to close the window, hither,

       At twilight, when the sun was down,

       And Fear my very soul would wither,

       Lest something should be dimly shown.

       Too much the buried form resembling,

       Of her who once was mistress here;

       Lest doubtful shade, or moonbeam trembling,

       Might take her aspect, once so dear.

       Hers was this chamber; in her time

       It seemed to me a pleasant room,

       For then no cloud of grief or crime

       Had cursed it with a settled gloom;

       I had not seen death's image laid

       In shroud and sheet, on yonder bed.

       ​Before she married, she was blest—

       Blest in her youth, blest in her worth;

       Her mind was calm, its sunny rest

       Shone in her eyes more clear than mirth.

       And when attired in rich array,

       Light, lustrous hair about her brow,

       She yonder sat—a kind of day

       Lit up—what seems so gloomy now.

       These grim oak walls, even then were grim;

       That old carved chair, was then antique;

       But what around looked dusk and dim

       Served as a foil to her fresh cheek;

       Her neck, and arms, of hue so fair,

       Eyes of unclouded, smiling light;

       Her soft, and curled, and floating hair,

       Gems and attire, as rainbow bright.

       Reclined in yonder deep recess,

       Ofttimes she would, at evening, lie

      

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