LOVE'S MEMORY. I wove a wreath, 'twas fresh and fair, And the blue harebell flowers were there ; I wove and flung the wreath aside : Too much did those bright blossoms speak Of thy dear eyes and youthful cheek. I took my lute; methought its strain With the sweet breath of ancient song: In vain; whate'er I made my choice And down I laid the restless lute, And turned me to the poet's page; But in the poet's work I find I wandered midst the silent wood, And sought the greenest, coolest glade, Where not a sunbeam might intrude; And strove to lead my heart to drink - At the deep founts of wandering thought, To ponder on the viewless link Between our souls and bodies wrought; To quench my passionate dreams of thee Awhile in that philosophy. Yet, all the while, thine image bright, Seemed quivering with beams of thee. Beloved! I will strive no more! Thine image, in vice-regal power, Throned in my heart, until the hour The next poem is also written in a hopeful mood: Fear not, beloved, though clouds may lower, Our love can neither wane nor set; What though long anxious years have passed, Whose beam upon our path shall shine. Ay, by the wandering birds, that find Though erst in mournful tears they set; We shall be happy yet! It is really pleasant to know that, although the bliss was short in duration, yet the vows of that faithful heart were heard. note: Here is one other love Another year is dying fast, A chequered year of joy and woe, The rose and thorn at once laid low : Not that my heart can be estranged, But I have learnt to love thee more. Yes, to mine ear thine accents all, Have grown more welcome and more glad, Thy coming step more musical, And thy departing tread more sad. ́ Their disappointments we have proved, As dark and drearier grew the scene. A temperament so framed must, of necessity, take pleasure in the beauties of Nature. I must make room for a few stanzas of her ANTICIPATIONS OF THE COUNTRY. The summer sunshine falls O'er the hot vistas of the crowded town, Startling the dusty walls With beauty and with glory not their own; The summer skies are bright, A canopy of peace above the strife Of human hearts that fight And struggle on the battle plain of life. Summers have passed away Since I a dweller mid this scene became, And still their earliest ray Hath sent a thirsty longing through my frame; In the green woodlands, in the pastures fair, My heart hath yearned to be a dweller there. It comes, it comes at last; All I have panted for is near me now; Ere many hours have past, A cool untroubled breeze shall fan my brow. The faint continuous hum That hath been round me till 'twas scarcely heard, No more shall near me come To mar the melodies of bee or bird. No more the sultry street Shall echo to my quick uneasy tread; Gladly I turn my feet To where the turf in daisied pride is spread. No more the whirling wheel, The tramping horses, and the people's shout; Oh! how my heart will feel The pleasant quiet circling me about. Blessed to go away, To where the wild-flower blooms and wood-bird sings, The purple vetch its wreathing garland flings. * * * * * One more I must quote, of a still different strain. It was left without a title, a mere fragment amongst her papers; but the Editor of the "Dublin Univer sity Magazine" has called it THE GIFTED. Oh, woe for those whose dearest themes Must rest within the bosom's fold! Unheeded by the coarse and cold. |