A shadow thrown across the moonlit walk-- A breeze that, sighing, lifts the woodbine leaves, and strays In through the open lattice, may restore The scenes that long in memory have slept.

Ah, me! stern Time can take out youth away-- Whiten our hair and mark our brows with age; But Memory, kind Memory, that holds the past, He cannot claim. Remembrance still is ours, And we may grasp her magic wand and touch The secret spring that hides our bygone years.

The murmur of a brook that flowing glides Between its violet banks, can call a sigh From that far time when we could roam at eve.

To hear the birds that sang the sunset down, With wild, glad vesper-songs by Nature taught.

The earnest face and tender eyes, that beamed With a whole world of deep, undying love, Rises again before my tear-dimm'd sight.

Then came a time when, with slow steps, and voices low and sad, They laid _her_ down to rest. Then life grew dark, And all that I had left on earth to love Was but a grave, beneath the churchyard trees, Where I could sit for dreary hours and weep.

Years fly apace. The wildest grief grows calm-- As storm-clouds lowering in the noonday sky, Seem darkest when they hang above our heads-- So we most feel the stroke of sorrow when it falls; But Hope draws near, and, pointing to the Future, whispers- "Wait:"

Yes, wait awhile; and for a few short years Struggle, and fight, and bear the burden well.

The sun that sank below the purple hills, Leaving the earth to darkness and to night, Shall bring new glory to the morning sky.

Death's night of gloom shall have its morn of bliss, And we shall find within the golden gates Our flowers that withered, in eternal bloom!

TO "W. C. T."

Oh, sad one, who wails for thy love that is slighted Left lone and forsaken, all joy fled away; Thy day-dream of beauty o'ershadowed and blighted, Thy sky once so rosy now clouded and gray.

Thine idol was earthly, and earth-like must perish; The casket was doubtlessly faultless and fair; But 'tis only the soul-gem the poet can cherish, And blend with, his dreamings in gladness or care.

The glory that shone like the East in the morning On the radiant ideal was sweet to behold; But, alas! 'twas thy fancy had wrought its adorning, And without it the real is worthless and cold.

And the poet's high soul ever craves for that beauty That must be arrayed in the white robe of Truth; The Love, Heaven-born, that walks hand-clasped with Duty, That thro' life's changing years keeps the heart in its youth.

Then shall Truth at the shrine of the False linger pining No! Nature rebels, and Hope whispers, Arise!

There are regions unknown in the glad sunlight shining-- In the paths of thy calling where happiness lies!

Oh, linger not weeping, in gloom and in sadness, The days that are coming thy healing shall bring; And a love, brighter far, horn of Truth and of Gladness, Shall Phoenix-like up from the dead ashes spring!

SUMMER LONGINGS.

There's a sound of woe in the forest lands, A wailing sigh in the wild wind's breath; The woods are waving their naked hands As they mourn fair Summer's death.

Through the leafless groves in the twilight hours Come gusts of music that sink and swell, And I cry, "Come back, with your light and flowers, Fair Queen of the year that I love so well!"

Come back to gladden the earth again, For the woods are grim in their winter woe, There's a dreary look on the lonely plain, And the hills and mountains are crowned with snow.

And I fancy I hear from the distant hills A blast of wind sweeping o'er the lea, From the gray old hawthorns and foam-clad rills, To tell a word of their woe to me.

Oh, Summer so lovely, lost and dead, I miss your sunshine and balmy hours, And blissful calms, when the noontide shed Its dreamy radiance on fields and flowers!

I miss your bird-songs that called me up To welcome the blush of the golden morn, When the dew-pearls gleamed in the harebell's cup, And the lark soared high o'er the fields of corn.

I miss the hush of the quiet eves, When the gloaming stole through the silent wood, And the low-toned zephyrs that stirred the leaves Were like elfin harps in the solitude.

Oh! Spring, return with your tender buds, And thousand splendours to deck the earth; Come back and reign in the grand old woods, And Winter shall fly at your welcome birth.

Come back, and wide o'er the hills and vales, The birds your welcome in glee shall sing; And their songs shall float on the gentle gales Till the earth in gladness and joy shall ring!

MY TREASURES.

Yes, I have treasures--not of gold or silver, Yet they are h.o.a.rded with a miser's care; Cherished and loved more tenderly and fondly Than purest gems, or jewels rich and rare.

Only a sc.r.a.p of paper, old and faded, Only some withered rose-leaves, sere and dry; And one long tress of hair, all bright and golden, Dear relics of the happy days gone by.

Well I remember that long, dreamy summer, With all its sunshine and its cloudless days; The pleasant rambles through the lanes at even, When earth was glowing in the sunset rays.

And when the Autumn, in his mellow splendour, Clothed field and forest in autumnal dyes, 'Twas sweet to wander in the still, weird twilight, And watch the moon ascend the eastern skies.

Oh! blissful hours! ah, vows so softly spoken, Ye held a subtle witchery for me; I dreamed a heart of love and trust unbroken Was mine--and mine alone--through time to be.

Alas! not mine that blossom that I cherished, And hoped would bloom through all the coming years; Death's chill hand fell upon it, and it perished, And left with me but memory and tears!

Oh, woods! though Autumn left you bare and leafless, Spring has returned, and brought you life and mirth; But the dead dream of youth's bright golden morning Of love and beauty, can it wake to birth?

It cannot be; the times that have departed, The days of gladness, can return no more; And I am lonely left and broken-hearted, Like some sad exile on a foreign sh.o.r.e,--

Who, gazing backwards, through the years can picture A time when love and friendship were his own; Then turning to the present, lone and cheerless, Finds all his happiness in life is gone.

So, now, life's evening shadows, grim and dreary, In deepest gloom, are round my pathway shed; The beams of hope are growing dim and weary, And all that once was bright is cold and dead!

Oh, long-lost love! the gloomy years are fleeting, Through life's dark dream they ever hurry fast; Great waves upon the brink of Time they're meeting, And, mingling, rush to form the shadowy Past!

THE GIFTED.

Say, are the gifted born the sons of woe-- The favoured ones on whom kind Heaven hath smiled, And dowered so richly with its priceless store; The lords of earth, the monarchs of the soil-- Men who are bless'd with minds that angels have: Are these to bear the jibe of vulgar tongues, To feel the taunts fell Envy madly hurls, Or brook the scorn gaunt Jealousy may show?

To them such things are but the angry blast That mars the bosom of the placid lake, Which smiles in dimpling ripples at its wrath!

They _have_ their "world of flower, and song, and gem,"

The land of beauty where the poet dwells-- His green Parna.s.sus where the muses reign: _Not_ hidden nor unseen; oh! look abroad, And tell me if thine eye no beauty sees.

The solemn grandeur of the Autumn woods, Bright-crimsoned with the dying Summer's blood; The mountains in their h.o.a.ry splendour drest, The valleys with their fields of golden grain, The glens deep hidden, where a thousand flowers In modest beauty shun the noontide glare; The wild-birds' song, the murmur of the streams That through their heathery banks of fragrance glide.

All these are theirs--their solace, their delight; Each with its charm of mystic beauty fraught; The gleams that pierce the clouds of common life, And let the light of Heaven's own sunshine in!

They have their dreams in twilight's shadowy hour, When they can strike their golden lyre, and feel The holy joy the poet calls his own.

And the soft breeze that sings among the boughs In numbers like the famed aeolian harp Seems blending with its tones, till earthly cares Melt, as beneath the syren's spell, and die!

Thus lightly o'er the waves his bark goes on, Hope for a beacon shining bright above.

While firmly at the helm stands fair Content To steer him safely till he reach the sh.o.r.e.

And then, when Death's grim portals open wide, And he has reached the Land he dreamed and sung, Oh! bliss to wander o'er the streets of gold, _His_ harp-notes mingling with the choirs of Heaven!

His hopes all realized, "faith lost in sight"-- His life a poem which G.o.d Himself hath read!