DOTH NOT A MEETING. 117

That's heard at distance in the grove;
No cloud should ever dim thy sky,
No thorns along thy pathway lie,

But all be beauty, peace, and love.
Indulgent Time should never bring
To thee one blight upon his wing,

So gently o'er thy brow he'd fly;
And death itself should but be felt
Like that of day beams, when they melt,

Bright to the last, in evening's sky!

T. MOORE.

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING
LIKE THIS.

AND doth not a meeting like this make amends
For all the long years I've been wandering away;
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
* * * * * * *
What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,
In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were

part,

Still round them like visions of yesterday throng.

118 DOTH NOT A MEETING.

As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,

When held to the flame will steal out on the

sight,

So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,

The warmth of a moment like this brings to

light.

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide
To visit the scenes of our boy hood anew,
Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
The wreck of full many a hope shining through;
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,

That once made a garden of all the gay shore, Deceived for a moment, we 'll think them still ours, And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once

more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;

And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,

For want of some heart that could echo it near. Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone, To meet in some world of more permanent bliss, For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast'ning on, Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

T. MOORE.

SAMUEL.

119

THE INFANT SAMUEL.

"Then Samuel answered, speak Lord; for thy servant heareth."

IN childhood's spring,--ah! blessed spring!
As flowers closed up at even
Unfold in morning's earliest beam,

The heart unfolds to heaven.
Ah! blessed child that trustingly
Adores and loves and fears,
And to a Father's voice replies,
"Speak, Lord, thy servant hears."

When youth shall come,-ah! blessed youth!
If still the pure heart glows,
And in the world and word of God,
Its Maker's language knows ;-
If in the night and in the day,

'Midst youthful joys or fears,

The trusting heart can answer still,
Speak, Lord, thy servant hears."

66

When age shall come,-ah! blessed age!
If in its lengthened shade,

When life grows faint and earthly lights
Recede and sink and fade,-

Ah blessed age! if then heaven's light

Dawn on thy closing eye,

And Faith unto the call of God

Can answer,

-"Here am I."

PEABODY.

120 POWER OF MEMORY.

POWER OF MEMORY.

HER charm around, the enchantress, Memory, threw,

A charm that soothes the mind and sweetens

too!

But is her magic only felt below?

Say through what brighter realms she bids it

flow!

There thy bright train, immortal Friendship,

soar,

No more to part, to mingle tears no more!
And as the softening hand of Time endears
The joys and sorrows of our infant years,
So there the soul, released from human strife,
Smiles at the little cares and ills of life,-

Its lights and shades, its sunshine and its show.

ers,

As at a dream that charmed her vacant hours.
ROGERS.

MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME.

I HAVE tasted each varied pleasure,
And drank of the cup of delight;
I have danced to the gayest measure
In the halls of dazzling light.
I have dwelt in a blaze of splendor,
And stood in the court of kings;

I have snatched at each toy that could render
More rapid the flight of Time's wings.
But vainly I've sought for joy or peace,
In the life of light or shade ;

And I turn with a sigh to my own dear home-
That home where my childhood played.
When jewels are sparkling round me,

And dazzling with their rays,

I weep for the ties that bound me
In life's first early days.

I sigh for one of the sunny hours,
Ere day was turned to night;

For one of my nosegays of fresh wild flowers,
Instead of those jewels bright.

I weep when I gaze on the scentless buds
Which never can bloom or fade;

And I turn with a sigh to those gay green fields

The home where my childhood played.

HON. MRS. NORTON.