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Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
Onee the calm scene of many a simple sport;
Brightens or fades; yet all. with magic art,
Hark! the bee winds her si mi 11 but mellow horn, Blithe to salute the sunny smile of mora. O'er thyiuy downs she bends her busy course, And many a stream allures her to its source. "Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so tinely wrought, Beyond the search of seuse, the soar of thought, Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind; Its orb so full, its vision so confined! Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell? With conscious truth retrace the mazy clew Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she flew? Hail, Memory, hail! thy universal reign Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. *******
To meet the changes time and chance present
Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine From age to age unnumbered treasures sbincl Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And place and time are subject to thy sway I
fH, a wonderful stream is the River Time, As it flows through the realm of Tears, s With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, i And a broader sweep and a surge sublime As it blends with the ocean of Years.
How the winters arc drifting like flakes of snow
And the summers like buds between; And the year iu the sheaf—so they come and they go On the River's breast with its ebb and flow,
As they glide in the shadow and sheen.
There 'a a magical Isle up the River Time
Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime,
And the Junes with the roses are staying
And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago,
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow— They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so! There are trinkets and tresses of hair.
There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer, There "s a harp uuswept and a lute without strings. There are broken vows and pieces of rings,
And the garments that she used to wear.
There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the River is fair.
Oh. remembered for aye be the blessed Isle
All the day of our life till night.
May that "greenwood" of soul be in sight.
Benjamin F. Taylor.