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Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze.
That casement, arched with ivy"s brownest shade.
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed.
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown

Onee the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When all things pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.
Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed
The gypsy's fagot,— there we sat and gazed;
Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe,
Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw.

Brightens or fades; yet all. with magic art,
Control the latent fibres of the heart.
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell
Drew every subject-spirit to his cell;
Each, at thy call advances or retires.
As judgment dictates or the scene inspires.
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course,
And through the frame invisibly convey
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play;
Man's little universe at once o'ercast.
At once illumined when the cloud is past.


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
With modest dignity and calm content.'
When thy last breath, ere nature sunk to rest.
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed;
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed;
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave.
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?
The sweet remembrance of unblemished youth.
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth!

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

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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,
And we bury our treasures there;

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.
And when evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile.

May that "greenwood" of soul be in sight.

Benjamin F. Taylor.

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