9m:m 
 
; LIBRARY OF COJVGRESS 
 
 «£% 
 
 
 * t 
 
 # * 
 
 73 
 H 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. \ 
 
 Q *9»'®>«&,<%,<&,<Sk,>m»<Q k ,. 
 
 «ft^<%,<K&,<^<^,^ 
 
 ^^^itj 
 
/m(>p L 
 
 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. SALLIE SPOTSWOOD CRUTE. 
 
 I'll I LA DELPH IA: 
 CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER 
 
 1 8 7 3 . 
 
-f$ 14-7 3 
 C 2-3 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1372, by 
 
 SALLIE SPOTSWOOD CRUTE, 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 
 
 COLLINS, riilNTKR. 
 
TO MY 
 
 FATHER AND MOTHER 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS DEDICATED AS A TRIBUTE OF LOVE 
 
 BY THEIR DAUGHTER, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Ill 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Before you I place these buds, which I have 
 gathered from the withered wreath ; gathered 
 them by life's thorny wayside springing. They 
 are wafted to you by friendly gales from amid the 
 shadowy banks of memory's bright enchanted isles. 
 In offering them, I let each breath rise with a warm 
 thank-offering from my heart to those who accept 
 them, hoping that they may a brightness and a 
 joy impart. Oh ! handle these buds with tender- 
 ness ; let their fragrance steal into your hearts 
 with a holy spell. Guard them with a kindly care, 
 for they send forth an odor freighted with love. 
 Some of these buds were gathered at an early age, 
 when my heart was full of dew ; when the world 
 was sweeter and more exceeding fair than now. 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 Other buds I gathered at later periods. I do not 
 offer them as bearing anjr brilliancy of color, but 
 deem them as the violet, modest and humble, yet 
 bearing heavenward their incense of love. Accept 
 them from the hands that present them, and may 
 they " live when dies my earthly name." 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
NOTICE. 
 
 It has not been our privilege to examine the 
 contents of this little book. The Authoress does 
 not put it forth because of special literary merits, 
 since a large proportion of its contents was written 
 in girlhood. Circumstances rather than choice 
 have induced her to publish it. She does not invite, 
 criticism, but simply asks that her friends and a 
 generous public may appreciate whatever of merit 
 there is in the little volume, for the sake of her 
 whose heart looks for encouragement in its pub- 
 lication and sale. This request finds a second in 
 her former pastor, 
 
 ft. K. BROWN. 
 
 Nashville, Tenn., Sept, 11, }&^2. 
 
 VII 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Mother 1? 
 
 To an Only Brother 18 
 
 Give me the Night 19 
 
 Lines to a Friend 20 
 
 Thou art with me still 22 
 
 Vesper Bells . 23 
 
 Tin: Soldier's Thoughts of Home ... 24 
 
 Life's Flowers 25 
 
 Fair-haired Ida Bell 27 
 
 On Scenes of other Happier Years ... 28 
 
 Clive to Ion 30 
 
 An Acrostic 31 
 
 Come where Brave, Brave Hearts are laid . 32 
 
 On the Death of Mary Louisa Binford . . 33 
 
 ix 
 
X CONTE TS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 O Come to the Woodland Bowers ... 34 
 
 The Dying Boy 35 
 
 An Acrostic ....... 39 
 
 The Bride 40 
 
 The Hindoo Wife to her Husband ... 42 
 
 Reveries 45 
 
 To a Withered Rose 47 
 
 1 N M EMORY OF MY LOST DaRLINQ . . . .49 
 
 To my Baby Boy 51 
 
 Life's Sorrows 52 
 
 A Sister's Entreaty 54 
 
 Little Eddie 55 
 
 To my Little Daughter, Robbie Lee . . . 57 
 
 The Spirit Voice 58 
 
 To Laura on the Death of her Little Sister . 59 
 
 Oh! Give me back my Youth again 61 
 
 In Memory of our Gallant Dead . . . 63 
 
 You bid me go with Words of Scorn ... 66 
 
 In Memory of James W. Bowie .... 68 
 
 To a Wild Flower 70 
 
 Lines 71 
 
 To Little Johnny ...... . v . 72 
 
CONTENTS. XI 
 
 PAUK 
 
 My Baby's Grave 73 
 
 On! would that we had never met . . . 76 
 
 To my Cousin, Capt. J. D. Brandon ... 78 
 
 That Olden Sono ^ 9 
 
 Oil! WOULD I WERE A ClIILD AGAIN ... 80 
 
 A Prayer 82 
 
 Autumn Leaves ° 4 
 
 Little Nell 8,) 
 
 Oh! would that I could Crush the Grief . 87 
 
 To my Brother °° 
 
 My Woodland Home 90 
 
 To Irene 91 
 
 To Ida Beli 92 
 
 Mary Queen of Scots Praying: before her Execu- 
 
 TION VO 
 
 Carriers' Address for the New Year, 187L . 95 
 
 The Greek Girl's Musings 97 
 
 Lines on Leaving Home 10 ° 
 
 Christmas Night 102 
 
 Lines 104 
 
 To my Father 10f) 
 
 Blind Willie's Dream 106 
 
Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 i give thee back thy faithless heart . . 108 
 
 The Weary Day has passed and gone . - . 110 
 
 Dear are the Scenes of my Childhood's Home . 112 
 
 Faded Hopes 113 
 
 I am Alone 115 
 
 To a Bereaved Mother 11 G 
 
 The Old House has Gone to Decay . . . 118 
 
 Down a Lonely Pathway near the Stream . . 120 
 
 In Memory of Gen. Robert E. Lee . . . 122 
 
 I'm Dreaming of the Past, Loye .... 124 
 
 Lines to a Friend 125 
 
 Beloved of my Soul 12 G 
 
 The Broken Household 128 
 
 Musings 130 
 
 Oh! Give me Flowers 131 
 
 Lines 132 
 
 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 Ministering Spirits 137 
 
 The Darkened Home 141 
 
 Homeward Bound . . . . . . 146 
 
CONTENTS. Xlll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Do they Miss me at Home 153 
 
 The Debutant 159 
 
 Reveries 105 
 
 Reveries continued . 169 
 
 Among the Dead 173 
 
 Intemperance 177 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
MY MOTHER. 
 
 T IKE the perfume of some faded flower, 
 -Li Like the breeze of an eastern clime ; 
 The thoughts of thee bring back again 
 
 The scenes of childhood's time. 
 Bright were the hopes that crowned my life- 
 
 Too bright, too bright were they 
 
 Then I thought that many bright hours 
 
 Would shine along my way. 
 Thoughts of thee bring back my home 
 
 With all its blissful hours — 
 The songs that once I loved so well 
 
 When a child among the flowers. 
 Mother, once more I see thy form, 
 
 Thy dear familiar face — 
 I hear once more thy gentle voice, 
 
 1 feel thy fond embrace. 
 
 2 1 T 
 
IS mips FROM memory's wreath. 
 
 Oh! over through the misty past 
 And through the future drear 
 
 AVill come, my lonely heart to fill, 
 Thy image, Mother dear ! 
 
 Peace, like the blessed dew that tails 
 
 Upon the opening flower, 
 Will on my lite thy influence come 
 
 With sweet and strengthening power 
 
 TO AN ONLY BROTHER. 
 
 SWEET is the fadeless memory 
 Of childhood's golden hour; 
 How it comes back on the spirit 
 
 With a deep and thrilling power : 
 The soft and heaventy rapture 
 
 Hanging round that fairy land, 
 While the blue sky bent in beauty 
 
 We wandered hand in hand. 
 Round our gentle mother kneeling 
 
 We learned of God and truth, 
 While her prayers fell on our spirits 
 
 And won our tender youth. 
 
BUDS PROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 19 
 
 It hath fled ! our sunny childhood, 
 
 All ! it was too bright to last, 
 And I often weep with sorrow 
 
 That it hath forever past. 
 
 GIVE ME THE NIGHT. 
 
 /^1 IYE me the night, the beautiful night, 
 
 ^ With its gleaming stars, its moonbeams bright, 
 
 While the perfume of flowers from hill and dell 
 
 Breathes o'er me with a soothing spell. 
 
 Give me the night, with its gems afar, 
 
 Looking down in love is each trembling star, 
 
 And my thoughts then soar to another sphere, 
 
 To a home more bright than this one here. 
 
 Give me the night, the clear, calm night, 
 
 To me it brings a sweet delight ; 
 
 Each star looks down with an angel's smile 
 
 To cheer my weary heart the while. 
 
 Give me the night, with its gems on high, 
 
 With its dim spirit-voices ever nigh ; 
 
 'Tis then I am ever yearning to gaze 
 
 On the loved and lost of earlier days. 
 
20 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Yes, give me the night, with its soft dreamy hours, 
 When hushed to repose are the gay birds and 
 
 flowers ; 
 'Tis then I breathe forth each heart-hidden thought 
 In silence from the " ashes of roses" brought. 
 Give me the night, the beautiful night, 
 With its gleaming stars, its moonbeams bright ; 
 While the perfume of flowers from hill and dell 
 Breathes o'er me with a soothing spell. 
 
 LINES TO A FRIEND. 
 
 A TELL me why thy heart is sad, 
 ^ Why heaves thy breast the sigh ; 
 Why fears of future ills arise 
 
 To cloud thy sunny sky? 
 Ah ! I would have thee smile again, 
 
 For all around are gay; 
 I 'd have thee be as happy now 
 
 As on thy bridal day. 
 I know those bright and happy days 
 
 Will come again once more, 
 And time will bring thee back the past 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 21 
 
 As bright as 'twas before. 
 I 'cl have you prize and value more 
 
 The blessings that are nigh ; 
 I 'd have you look to future joys 
 
 With calm and hopeful eye. 
 The hopes that clustered round thy life 
 
 Will bud again for thee ; 
 Those hopes that came in spring's 3 r oung time 
 
 For thee will brighter be. 
 Then let thy heart be light and gay 
 
 In this, thy darkest hour, 
 And bend thy knee serenely now 
 
 Before God's holy power. 
 

 TnOU ART WITH ME STILL. 
 
 npnOU art with mo still — at eventide 
 -*- Thy low sweet voice is heard, 
 Rousing within my heart those hidden springs 
 That oft thy tones have stirred. 
 
 Thy low sweet tones, how soft they come, 
 
 Thrilling my soul in every chord ; 
 There is joy around, beneath, above, 
 
 Like dew-drops on sweet flowers poured. 
 
 There comes to me an answering tone 
 With the bliss of Heaven-imparted life ; 
 
 A richer sound my spirit's depths ne'er stirred — 
 My soul with melody is rife. 
 
 Thou art with me still, though years have passed, 
 
 Passed wearily and slow, 
 Rearing each j'03^, each happy dream, 
 
 To the dim eternal shore. 
 22 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 23 
 
 Thou 'It still be with mc; years but twine 
 Sweet memories round affection's tomb, 
 
 And, like the Eden bird of Hope, 
 
 Still lights the charnel's ghastly gloom. 
 
 VESPER BELLS. 
 
 (\R ! the sweet, sweet vesper bells, 
 ^ How soft their notes are stealing ; 
 How like some far-off heavenly strain 
 
 They come with music pealing : 
 Bells of music borne by fragrant gales, 
 
 Each varying note or mournful swell 
 Comes on the air, with sounds of bliss, 
 
 To charm us with their magic spell. 
 
 Sweet vesper bells, thy holy strains 
 
 Sink in my inmost heart ; 
 They speak of joys, of heavenly rest 
 
 That never will depart. 
 O'erburthened with an earthly weight, 
 
 For thy sweet sounds ray soul doth 3 r carn ; 
 They bring once more, in beauty bright, 
 
 Sweet dreams that never will return. 
 
24 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Bells of music, o'er my soul 
 
 Come thy strains at even ; 
 Each mellow sound, so soft and clear, 
 
 Brings holy thoughts of heaven : 
 O'er the earth thy notes are pealing, 
 
 Each pulse throbs with the holy strain, 
 And o'er my mem'ry a mournful glory comes 
 
 Of days I ne'er shall see again. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S THOUGHTS OF HOME. 
 
 I" SIGH for the home where loved ones dwell, 
 -*- In my far-off southern home ; 
 For the peaceful rest of the free and brave 
 
 To that spot my thoughts will roam. 
 My native home ! I see thee now 
 
 As fast, mid gathering tears, 
 Fond memory gently wanders back 
 
 To former, happier years. 
 'Twas there the light of peace and love 
 
 Robbed life of many a care, 
 And tints of heavenly beauty wrought 
 
 The hopes that clustered there. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 25 
 
 The thoughts of childhood, "gleesome sweet," 
 
 Are lingering with me yet ; 
 No grief can its sweet influence quench, 
 
 Or cause rne to forget ; 
 The fiery war-god's crimson touch 
 
 Hath marked my few sad years ; 
 Suffering may bring sweet peace at last, 
 
 Though brought with blood and tears. 
 Around my far-off southern home 
 
 Affection's flowerets wave ; 
 Then near that cherished household band 
 
 make my lonely grave ! 
 
 LIFE'S FLOWERS. 
 
 QWEET flowers, sweet flowers around me bloom. 
 ^ Each bud is touched with a soft perfume : 
 Oh ! how I cherish this living wreath 
 As it thrills my soul with its perfumed breath. 
 
 More beautiful than the light in a poet's dream, 
 Lovelier than flowers by the sparkling stream 
 Are those earthly buds, my cherished flowers. 
 That are linked with love in our earthly bowers. 
 
26 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Those frail flowers to me were given 
 From the fount of love, the throne of heaven ; 
 And I ever find at this sacred shrine 
 Fresh fragrance where these leaflets twine. 
 
 But I miss one hud from my wreath of flowers. 
 The loveliest that bloomed within the bowers ; 
 Death came, and froze with chilling blight 
 The tendrils of hope, of love, and light. 
 
 I laid him away, this bud so rare, 
 Where the world's cold breath and its chilling air 
 Could never touch with its poisonous breath 
 This lovely bud from the living wreath. 
 
 Yes, he now dwells with a brighter band 
 Than those frail flowers in our earthly land, 
 Where bright angels dwell on a golden shore, 
 His tones of ethereal music pour. 
 
 Oh ! may I keep my earthly flowers 
 Pure in these amaranthine bowers ; 
 May the vases in which the buds unfold 
 Be burning gems and inwrought with gold. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 27 
 
 Let me clasp to my heart this living wreath, 
 
 Let my soul drink in its perfumed breath ; 
 
 The world's breath will pale them, though beautiful 
 
 now, 
 And death sooner or later will chill each fair brow. 
 
 FAIR-HAIRED IDA BELL. 
 
 IHAYE a sweet and gentle child, 
 With golden sunny tress, 
 And care dims not her snow-white brow 
 
 In all its loveliness. 
 Her cheek is like the ocean shell, 
 
 Her smile is fresh and sweet ; 
 Her eyes are of the brightest blue, 
 
 Like the violets at her feet : 
 She sees bright shapes in the floating clouds, 
 
 She feels no weight of care, 
 And, like a bird in the spring-time gay, 
 
 To her all earth seems fair. 
 And would you know this gentle one, 
 
 With her wealth of golden hair, 
 Who dwells near by old bayou's stream, 
 With brow so pure and fair ? 
 
28 BUD8 FROM MEMORY'S WKi'vrn. 
 
 She is the darling Of our hearts. 
 
 Her oame I Deed Dot toll. 
 For all who know this lowly one 
 
 Doth prim and love hoi- well. 
 Where blooms the gaj "forget-me-not" 
 
 Down in the shady doll. 
 Near by old bayou's murky stream 
 Dwells fair-hair'd Ida Bell. 
 
 ON SCENES or OTHER SAPPIER YEARS. 
 
 AN seenos o( other happier years, 
 ^ The buried joys of former days, 
 Through memory's fair and magle glass 
 With tearful eye intent I gate: 
 
 1 read again life's folded leaves, 
 
 1 see the forms I loved so well ; 
 1 list to Hope's delicious song, 
 
 I feel her magio spell. 
 
 The scenes of other happier years, 
 
 The forms and t'aees dear. 
 E'en now, though years are passed and gone, 
 
 Full fresh and fond appear. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. '2'.) 
 
 Yes, memory brings me back my youth, 
 
 She tells me of the past; 
 She summons back the scenes I loved 
 
 To cheer my heart at last. 
 
 trv 
 
 rwas then I sipped life's choicest sweets 
 
 Beneath youth's sunny sky ; 
 'Twas then the calm of sweet content 
 
 Beamed forth from childhood's eye. 
 Ah! in the morning of those days 
 
 Life gleamed in brightest hue ; 
 But soon those visions were dispelled 
 
 Like gems of sparkling dew. 
 
 the blessings that once were mine! 
 
 They '11 come again no more ; 
 The voices of the friends I loved 
 
 Rave fled with days of yore. 
 Ah ! where are now those cherished ones 
 
 Whose love was warm and true? 
 Where is the light of other days, 
 
 The bliss that once I knew ? 
 
 Alas! those loved and cherished ones 
 Rest 'neath the hawthorn's bloom ; 
 
30 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Their cheeks grow pale, their bright eyes dim, 
 They Bleep in death's dark gloom. 
 
 But time and change, that visit all. 
 
 Can never steal away 
 The joys, the memories oi' the past, 
 
 The light of childhood's day. 
 
 OLIVE TO ION. 
 
 "V7KS, we have parted and forever, 
 -*- We Who thought would never part ; 
 Love's golden chains your words now sever, 
 
 Then take, take again your heart: 
 Yes, take it back, for it is thine ; 
 
 Never more on earth we'll meet ; 
 Then give to me the heart that's mine, 
 
 And leave me lone, but free to weep. 
 Yet, if sorrow e'er should fling 
 
 Its shadows o'er thy brow, 
 There still will be a heart to ding 
 
 To thine as even now. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 31 
 
 But, false one, I leave thee now 
 
 With feelings that no tongue can tell, 
 
 With blessings rich upon thy brow 
 I bid thee a last farewell ! 
 
 AN ACROSTIC. 
 
 EVER, dear one, will thy memory dwell 
 Low in my heart's most sacred cell ; 
 Led by memory through long-vanished years, 
 I dream of thee through unwept tears. 
 Ere death had chilled thy life so fair 
 Visions of beauty were imprinted there. 
 Like lovely fancies of a poet's dream 
 Oft will thy image around me beam ; 
 While round my heart thy smile still clings 
 Ever among life's brightest things. 
 
COME WHERE BRAVE, BRAVE HEARTS 
 ARE LAID. 
 
 pOME where brave, brave hearts are laid, 
 ^ Where the silent form reposeth ; 
 Apart from the cold world's noisy strife 
 
 Come as evening's hour closeth ; 
 The loved feel not. our silent tread, 
 
 Their freed souls rest forever ; 
 They have gone to dwell in a fairer clime, 
 
 Where the bright flower fadeth never. 
 Above each soldier's hallowed tomb 
 
 A (lection's flowerets wave ; 
 O may the genial dews of love 
 
 Water each loncty grave. 
 
 Standing o'er each honored grave 
 
 Come thoughts of joys that were, 
 And love is in each soul enshrined, 
 
 Each hero claims a share. 
 Then deck each grave of our noble dead, 
 
 bend ye at their shrine ; 
 
BUDS PROM MEMORY'S WREATH. .'{.'{ 
 
 Their hearts arc stilled, in death they sleep, 
 Their honOT make 8 it thine,. 
 
 O'er the blest and honored why repine? 
 
 Their griefs and perils now are past. 
 Why o'er their lonely pillow should we weep? 
 
 They 've found sweet peace at last. 
 'Twas for their country, for their race they died ; 
 
 This thought our sorrowing bosoms thrill ; 
 And, gazing up with tearful eye, 
 
 We bow beneath our Father's will. 
 
 ON THE 
 DEATH OF MARY LOUISA BINFORD. 
 
 T THINK of her J loved so well 
 -*- Who, in her summer's bloom, 
 Bright from the arms of love went forth 
 To the dim silence of the tomb. 
 
 3 think of her whose' beaming smile 
 Was as the sunlight to our view ; 
 
 Whose voice, like the lull of streams, 
 Floated o'er our souls like morning clew. 
 3 
 
34 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 I think of her whose heart e'er bore 
 
 The nni sic of Life's stream ; 
 And all things seemed to her as bright 
 
 As some fair fairy dream. 
 
 But she is gone, like the pale sweet flowers 
 That bloomed in early spring ; 
 
 She slumbers in the silent grave 
 
 Where the birds their sweet songs sing. 
 
 () COME TO THE WOODLAND BOWER) 
 
 OCOMK to the woodland bowers, 
 There is fragrance in the air ; 
 Let the merry laugh ring out in glee, 
 Bright flowers are blooming there. 
 
 Come with the light-winged hours, 
 
 For beauty is everywhere ; 
 come to the woodland shades, 
 
 Let us wander joyously there. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 35 
 
 There blooms in beaut}^ the peerless flower, 
 
 Each young bud wears a blush ; 
 The murmuring fount with its crystal wealth 
 
 Flows amid the holy hush. 
 
 'Tis there the sparkling sunbeams peep 
 Lovingly through the fragrant leaves, 
 
 And joyous sounds above us swell 
 
 As Nature her song of gladness weaves. 
 
 Then come to the woodland bowers, 
 
 There is fragrance in the air ; 
 Let the merry laugh ring out in glee, 
 
 Bright flowers are blooming there. 
 
 THE DYING BOY. 
 
 "lyrOTHER, I feel I 'm dying now, 
 
 -^ So feeble is my sight ; 
 
 I soon must burst my spirit bonds, 
 
 And go where all is light : 
 I know thy heart with grief is wrung 
 
 To see thy darling die ; 
 To know that he must "sleep the sleep' 
 
 Alone, with no one nigh. 
 
36 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Bury me where bright flowers bloom 
 
 To slumber soft and sweet, 
 Where early violets begin to peep 
 
 In beauty at my feet : 
 Yes, lay me 'neath my favorite tree, 
 
 Where oft, in childhood's hour, 
 I wandered with my sisters dear 
 
 To cull each tiny flower. 
 To that spot you '11 come, mother, 
 
 To seal the pledges given, 
 They '11 serve as links to thy lonely heart 
 
 In the chain that reaches heaven. 
 Yes, bend thee o'er that sacred spot 
 
 When thy heart its sorrows wear, 
 A whispering voice will say to thee, 
 
 Look up, thy boy is there, 
 In that bright and glorious heaven, 
 
 With friends and loved ones gone, 
 With unseen angels hovering near 
 
 I '11 cheer thy heart so lone : 
 I '11 gather flowers of immortal birth 
 
 That bloom in beauty there, 
 I '11 join a band of those Eden flowers 
 Whose tints eternal glory wear. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 37 
 
 ITere on thy wildly heaving breast 
 
 I '11 lay my weary head, 
 And listen to thy blessed voice, 
 
 And watch the tears you shed. 
 
 murmur again thy heartfelt love, 
 
 clasp me to thy breast ; 
 
 Thy quivering lips now press to mine, 
 
 My hand by thine be pressed. 
 Draw each loved one near, mother, 
 
 But tell them not to weep, 
 While you sing again that happy song 
 
 1 '11 close mine eyes in sleep ; 
 Breathe again the holy prayer 
 
 That speaks of a Saviour's love, 
 While angels pure are hovering near 
 
 From those starry worlds above. 
 Hark ! I hear their voices, mother, 
 
 They come from that bright land, 
 While notes of sweetest music pour 
 
 From harps of the seraph band. 
 Bar not the sunlight from my view, 
 
 On my brow let it glow ; 
 
 1 hail it as a beam of love 
 From the land to which I go ; 
 
38 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 To my throbbing heart and aching brow 
 
 It speaks sweet words of peace, 
 As, pouring through yon window, soft 
 
 It falls upon my face. 
 Death has waved his icy wand, 
 
 He drinks the life dew from my heart ; 
 I soon will win an immortal goal 
 
 When these quick'ning fibres rend apart. 
 I '11 wait me in those star-lit heavens 
 
 For thee and my sisters fair ; 
 Then wipe away those gushing tears 
 
 And seek to meet me there. 
 
 let me see around thy brow 
 The seal of faith and love ; 
 
 1 '11 bear it in my pulseless breast 
 
 To my glorious home above. 
 I hear sweet notes again, mother, 
 
 'Tis the loved ones from on high ; 
 All mute those lips are growing, mother, 
 
 And dim is now mine eye. — 
 On the drooping e} T e and pallid cheek 
 
 Death threw his icy spell ; 
 His spirit fled with the sunbeams pale 
 
 To that home he loved so well: 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 39 
 
 They laid him 'neath his favorite tree, 
 
 Near the star-like blossoms of his early home, 
 
 Where soft winds breathe o'er his place of rest 
 As he sleeps in death alone. 
 
 AN ACROSTIC. 
 
 TjVEN now I see those deep-fringed orbs 
 
 -*-"■ Drooping day by day, 
 
 Wearing within their looks of love 
 
 A tale of sad decay : 
 
 Round thy pure and childish brow 
 
 Death's darksome shadow resteth now. 
 
 I think of thee, the loved, the wept, 
 
 Closed are those orbs of light; 
 
 Remembrance now with mournful sweetness dwells 
 
 Upon each look, each smile so bright ; 
 
 The haunting image of thy sweet face 
 
 E'en now doth fill one vacant place. 
 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 /\ LONELY is my heart bo-night, 
 ^ Its pains 1 cannot still ; 
 Nor calm the tumult, of my breast, 
 
 That beats not at- my will. 
 Fierce is the straggle of my soul, 
 
 Deep are the burning tears 
 In bitterness that now 1 shod 
 
 O'er hones o\ % Other years. 
 
 Could 1 but feel you loved me still, 
 That yet to me were given 
 
 The VOWS that at love's altar shrine 
 
 Were breathed and sealed in heaven 1 
 Thou art changed — thy words are cold — 
 
 And scornful is thine eye; 
 Thy heart's fond wish is to be free, 
 
 E'en though I weep and sigh. 
 40 
 
BUDfl PROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 41 
 
 I note the glance within thine eye, 
 
 So passionate, wild, and deep ; 
 Thou ne'er hast loved as / have loved, 
 
 Else thou could'st riot see me weep. 
 Well thou knowest I ne'er could brook 
 
 The sting thy words now give, 
 And though my heart they almost break 
 
 'Twere worse than death to live. 
 
 E'en now grief's dark and mighty tide 
 
 Hath o'er my spirit stole; 
 Yet none shall know the sting I bear 
 
 Down in my inmost soul. 
 Ah ! like some poor negleeted flower 
 
 I ean my wound coneeal ; 
 They shall not know that o'er my soul 
 
 Doubts of thy love doth steal. 
 
 mi 
 
 
THE HINDOO WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 
 
 QPEAK words of love, let them sweetly Bow 
 ^ From out thy heart's deep shrine 
 Pure as incense from the dewy cup 
 
 That greeteth the bright sunshine; 
 Let the homage of tlry heart be given 
 
 In ceaseless worshipping ; 
 Once more to me, thy once loved wile, 
 
 But now a loveless thing. 
 
 pour the precious treasure out 
 Which oft thy lips have spoken 
 
 In tones of love, O speak again, 
 
 Else this poor heart be broken. 
 The torturing thoughts, the anxious fears, 
 
 Have bowed my heart with care ; 
 
 1 mourn me for the love that once 
 
 Made life so bright and fair : 
 Alas ! a blight so cold, so drear, 
 Hath fallen on my soul, 
 42 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATTT. 
 
 This inward pain, without relief, 
 
 Thou only canst control. 
 Thy cold distrust hath robbed my life 
 
 Of all its warmth and light, 
 And burning thoughts in anguish roll 
 
 Dark as the Egyptian night. 
 Thou dost little dream how laden 
 
 Is this heart with love for thee — 
 Thou who art the sunlight of my life, 
 
 The holiest star that beams for me : 
 The rich warm depth of my young heart 
 
 Its all of love hath given 
 To thee, who art my morning sun, 
 
 My spirit's gem, my soul's pure heaven. 
 My heart's deep fount, that kept of old 
 
 Its treasured feelings but for thee, 
 Is still as pure as when it beat 
 
 For thee in youth so joyously. 
 Then let me be again thy pride, 
 
 The chosen one all else above; 
 And bless me with thy precious faith, 
 
 And breathe again sweet words of love: 
 Yes, speak in whispers low and sweet, 
 
 Breathe music soft and low, 
 
44 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 And may love's ilowers in beauty bloom 
 
 Like those of long ago. 
 You cannot tear me from yonr heart, 
 
 For, go where'er 3-011 will, 
 Within the heart which I have grieved 
 
 Will dwell mine image still; 
 And like the diver's treasured pearls, 
 
 Ah! dearer tar than these, 
 Will be the echo of my voice 
 
 Upon each passing breeze. 
 Then tear me not from out thy heart. 
 
 But let me be to thee 
 As pure, as bright as ocean shell 
 
 E'er was unto the sea : 
 Yes, let me be as glittering dew 
 
 Upon the lovely flowers, 
 To bless and brighten with my light 
 
 This wedded life of ours. 
 Then take me back unto thy heart, 
 
 And never from me roam. 
 But let the music of 1113- voice 
 
 Still cheer thee in thy home. 
 
REVERIES. 
 
 I7*0ND memory comes again to-night, 
 A checkered scene of smiles and tears; 
 She brings again the shadowy past 
 
 Of vanished hopes, of griefs and fears : 
 Sad from the tomb of buried years 
 
 Upon my heart sweet visions burn ; 
 They breathe the same sad mourning notes 
 Of hopes that never can return. 
 
 One by one those visions come, 
 Breathing sad music on my ear, 
 
 And, like some moonlight's fairy spell, 
 They come my lonely heart to cheer ; 
 
 They come with notes like angels bright- 
 Hush ! I hear them even now ; 
 
 I feel again their perfumed breath 
 Upon my fevered brow. 
 
 45 
 
16 BUDS FROM MEMOR1 's WREATH. 
 
 Their music hath the power to thrill 
 
 My heart, all clouded o'er ; 
 To bring onoe more in blissful dreams 
 
 The notes oi' long ago : 
 
 Yes, memory's voioe is whispering low 
 
 A form now floats around 
 
 With snowy robes and golden wings, 
 
 A brow all brightly crowned, 
 
 I Bee Once more his baby form, 
 11 is sweet ami sunny brow ; 
 
 It calms the wildness oi' my brain. 
 That boats so madly now : 
 
 My heart is like the dying breeze, 
 
 It leaves no sound ol' mirth ; 
 
 For, like a faded flower, ho lies 
 Within the cold, damp earth. 
 
 Yet on his pure and sainted brow 
 
 Beams God's unclouded light ; 
 lie reigns above, with angels pure, 
 
 In heaven, where all is bright. 
 With softened eyes and sunny smiles 
 
 1 see my child o\: love ; 
 lie calls me with his silvery voice, 
 
 He beckons me above. 
 
ff 
 
 #v - - 
 
 TO A WITHERED RO 
 
 BBi CJTY was thine, poor faded one, 
 In ime's brightest day ; 
 
 But time, who loved thee but too well, 
 
 Bath borne that gift away. 
 I watched thy leaves unfold to view 
 
 Beneath my own sweet clime, 
 Where not a storm-blast reached thy form, 
 Or marred a beauty like to thine. 
 
 Time passed by; I saw thee fade, 
 
 Thou whom I had so cherished ; 
 I missed thee from thy flowery bed ; 
 
 i knew that then had perished : 
 And softly on the evening breeze 
 
 That murmuringly passed by 
 Were whispered words from sister flowe 
 
 Our Loved one is not nigh. 
 
 41 
 
48 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 No more in beauty wilt thou grow, 
 Or forth thy sweets diffuse, 
 
 But memory oft will cheer my heart 
 Whene'er on thee I muse. 
 
 never again within the bowers 
 Will thy fragrance fill the air, 
 
 For in a sad and hapless hour 
 You faded from my care. 
 
 Yes, thou art gone, my cherished flower, 
 Thou bud of richest bloom ; 
 
 1 murmur in my spirit's depth 
 When thinking of thy doom. 
 
 Thy fairy leaves of richest dye 
 Were swept by storms away ; 
 
 Thy lovely form was crushed and bowed 
 On a cold autumnal day. 
 
IN MEMORY OF MY LOST DARLING. 
 
 AMONG the joys love had brought, 
 Among the treasures of my heart, 
 Was one that shed a holy spell, 
 
 'Twas of my life itself & part: 
 A holy charm to me was given, 
 
 A soul was linked unto mine own : 
 It spoke to me with love's pure breath, 
 A spell was round me thrown. 
 
 My sweetest smiles shone on it, 
 
 I watched it bud and bloom, 
 And not one thought of sadness 
 
 E'er filled my heart with gloom ; 
 Ah no! for 'mid love's bowers 
 
 He was a priceless gem ; 
 And oh ! I smiled in gladness, 
 
 I was its parent stem. 
 4 49 
 
t 
 
 50 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Like a spirit from some other world', 
 
 Like a beam from the upper sphere, 
 It came so bright, the winsome thing, 
 
 To cheer my heart while here : 
 This gift of mine, Heaven's bright gem, 
 
 That filled my soul with joy, 
 As pure and bright as angels are 
 
 Was my darling cherub boy. 
 
 I thought not then that death's fierce power 
 
 Its loveliness could mar; 
 I thought not of the fatal sweep 
 
 That could its sweets debar : 
 But oh how changed ! for now I grieve, 
 
 And lonely is my heart ; 
 Ah me! it was a painful thing 
 
 With my sweet child to part. 
 
 Oh how I weep in sorrow 
 
 To think of Eddie's doom! 
 My angel one, my darling boy, 
 
 Lies in the silent tomb. 
 I '11 see no more his baby face 
 
 That my poor hands caressed ; 
 I '11 press no more his lovely head 
 
 That nestled on my breast ! 
 

 TO MY BABY BOY. 
 
 /^LAP th} r bands in childish glee 
 ^ Amid tbe summer flowers, 
 For like sweet sunshine from above 
 Are thy young infant hours. 
 
 Thy lovely face, all smiling now 
 In happy, thoughtless glee, 
 
 Shines with the light of peace and love- 
 Ob beautiful art thou to me! 
 
 Yes, thou art beautiful, angel one, 
 
 With voice gay and wild; 
 With sunny smiles, like moonlit skies, 
 
 And brow so pure and mild. 
 
 Fair is thy life, peerless babe, 
 
 So innocent and fair; 
 Like the radiance on the brow of night 
 
 Thy face a gleam doth wear. 
 
 51 
 
52 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 How sweet you nestle to 1113^ breast. 
 In all thy beauty bright; 
 
 How like a star that gleams above 
 From Eden's golden light. 
 
 Sweet solaee in my lonely hours, 
 Thou art my dearest joy ; 
 
 And to my heart, like stars to-night, 
 Art thou, my blue-eyed boy. 
 
 Thy beaut}- thrills my soul with joy, 
 Thou richest gift from Heaven ; 
 
 AH beautiful and bright you come, 
 To me by seraphs given. 
 
 LIFE'S SORROWS. 
 
 QTJRGE upon surge of sorrow rolls 
 ^ Across the human breast; 
 On every breeze is borne a sigh, 
 
 Blood from each heart is pressed : 
 Our heart-strings trail through blood and sighs, 
 
 No joys our sorrows break; 
 And ever with wild and doleful groans 
 
 We stand the fiery stake. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 53 
 
 Life's sweetest ties are ever riven, 
 
 Summer's brightest flowers fade; 
 We writhe in grief and anguish deep 
 
 O'er the fate our sins have made: 
 Sad sounds come from our heart's deep chords, 
 
 Yet we cling with hopes and fears 
 To the joyous spring and summer hours, 
 
 Made up of smiles and tears. 
 Yes, soft remembrances ever bring 
 
 Sweet relics of the past ; 
 We give our feelings to the hopes 
 
 That were not made to last. 
 No, jo}^s were never made to live, 
 
 We all must mourn youth's vanished dream; 
 We lay our torn hearts in the dust, 
 
 Life's joys are but bubbles on the stream. 
 

 ' ■ cr> . 
 
 
 A SISTER'S ENTREATY. 
 
 GA.ZE on my drooping eye and on my pallid 
 oheek, 
 [Jpon mv grief bowed head ; 
 
 Oh murmur sweet words, the)/ '11 case mv heart, 
 
 Mv brightest hopes are dead. 
 Oh you can lull my soul to rest, 
 
 Can ease it o\' its pain ; 
 Then Km no words of sorrow now 
 
 Gome in this hour to reign. 
 
 All light within mv soul is quenched, 
 
 1 'm tossod on sorrow's sea, 
 
 Ami grief and anguish hover near — 
 
 Then cling, oh oling to mo. 
 N'mv that grief has come to dim 
 
 The life that once was bright, 
 Thy love will come, like radiant stars. 
 
 To cheer life's darkest night. 
 
 54 
 
BUDS i ■'Rom MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 oil breathe i'<>v me thy fondest prayer 
 That Joys may round me beam — 
 
 That life may yet Ik>m future hopes 
 That may around me gleam. 
 
 Then leave me not in grief alone, 
 Such grief my bosom sears; 
 
 My son! is all tOO full for words, 
 
 My heart too <i<:el for tears. 
 You l>i<l my heart again be filled 
 
 Willi the hopes of other years — 
 How can I still this throbbing breast) 
 
 How chock these bitter tears? 
 
 LITTLE i : i > i > i r:. 
 
 /\FT in dreams thou com'st to cheer me, 
 
 Cleansed from <>Ycvy earthly stain; 
 () thou white, browed angel i».'<,l»y, 
 
 Thus I see thee once again. 
 Thou art ever hovering near me, 
 
 Tones long hushed are heard again; 
 A imI my sorrowing heart rejoices 
 
 Ah I hear thy heavenly strain. 
 
m ps FROM MKMOR\ S wuk.yi'U. 
 Yos, 1 M 
 
 Ho) - in . round mj to 
 
 S ■ low . ... Mid plain 
 
 01 naj < - id and oariv dead, 
 Thou art from that spirit land 
 
 I'liw IV.on's lluv;\ 
 
 You toft mo, darling, In grief and tears, 
 
 v wean 
 
 Y ou toll no i \ s that wail mo 
 
 [n that happj land — 
 
 01 tl e awe* \ oes 
 
 Of the glad and happj band* 
 Su eet music (tain t) 3 
 
 plaintive tune 
 l .v teth 
 
 OH WTJ Juno. 
 
 1 weep thai I 
 
 lu t':\ 3 oung M/.\ 's - torn : 
 
 Thou 1 art • - deep hope and ; 
 
 P01 earij n 
 loved and mon on 
 
 Si 1 3 lips is gual 
 
 With md. 
 

 i ate 
 
 /'V* 
 
 TO MV LITTLE DAT7GHTEB, BOBBIE LEE- 
 
 rpHOU art my beard's fond I 
 ■ Boll 
 
 Wii.ij brow pu 
 
 l-.y< I ween ; 
 
 Hair like threads of shining goldj 
 
 Lips like coral from tl 
 Thy cheeks are like the bloom of* the rose. 
 
 Beautiful Robbie Lee 
 
 Thon art a child of beauty bright, 
 
 Robbie. i — 
 
 That witching smile, tl dark, 
 
 Are like an ai cm afar; 
 
 Thou art the child of* light and love, 
 
 The loveliest gem I 
 All fresh from 
 
 Beautiful Robbie Lee. 
 
 07 
 
58 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Thou hath my soul with rapture filled, 
 
 Robbie, my gay — 
 The sweetest one among life's flowers 
 
 That blooms along my way : 
 Thou hath made this world a paradise 
 
 Since thou wert given to me, 
 And every day brings new delight, 
 
 Beautiful Robbie Lee. 
 
 THE SPIRIT VOICE. 
 
 T HEAR a spirit voice 
 ■*■ Murmuring by; 
 Soft lights are streaming 
 
 In memory's azure sky: 
 That voice so sweet 
 
 A gladness tells, 
 Freed from this world of pain 
 
 In heaven dwells. 
 
 Though reft of brightest gleamings, 
 
 Poor heart, 
 Still that spirit voice 
 
 A joy doth impart ; 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Purest, brightest, holiest hopes 
 
 Bloom for thee, 
 Speaking from those worlds of light 
 
 To hearts silently. 
 
 TO LAURA 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HER LITTLE SISTER. 
 
 THY heart is sad, sweet Laura, 
 Dark thoughts thy soul doth fill, 
 And the heavy waves of sorrow 
 Doth dwell within thee still. 
 
 I know thy young thoughts wander 
 To the little one now gone, 
 
 And with many dear rememberings 
 Of joys just in their dawn. 
 
 You cannot check the bitter tears 
 For her whose life is gone ; 
 
 You miss the smiles, forever fled, 
 Of her, thy gentle one. 
 
CO bud's prom memory's wreath. 
 
 Yes, thou art thinking all the time 
 Of that Bweet angel child 
 
 AYlio shed delight unto thy heart 
 Whene'er on thee it smiled. 
 
 She was thy pet, this darling babe, 
 This preoious little pearl — 
 
 This wondrous gift, by angels sent 
 To dwell in this cold world. 
 
 But (Jod hath taken the little flower. 
 And you your gem hath lost; 
 
 But grieve riot, Laura, ii is spared 
 The cold world's blighting frost. 
 
 No, weep not for the precious jewel 
 That graced your home whilst here, 
 
 For though amid the angel band, 
 Her spirit is ever near. 
 
Oil! 01 VK ME BACK MY YOUTH AGAIN. 
 
 / \1I ! give me back my youth again, 
 
 ^ With all its joy, its grief, and pain ; 
 
 Yes, give me hack those happy hours, 
 
 Again a child among the flowers. 
 
 My youth ! it comes like thoughts of heaven, 
 
 'Tis painted on the sky of even, 
 
 And friends, and joy, and hope are mine, 
 
 For holy thoughts around me shine. 
 
 My heart, all fraught with memory's hue, 
 
 Brings hack the past again to view, 
 
 And life is filled with pleasant dreams 
 
 Too bright for aught save happy themes. 
 
 Oh! give me back my youth again, 
 
 Hallowed for its every pain — 
 
 Let scenes once more before mine eye 
 
 Be fresh as "warm reality." 
 
 In hours when tender thoughts of thee, 
 
 Sweet youth, comes o'er my memory, 
 
 Gl 
 
62 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Those mingled hours of joy and pain 
 Will wake me to sweet life again. 
 To dream those happy dreams so fair 
 Memory's last soft touch she places there, 
 And oh! what feelings will come o'er 
 The heart when living in the past once more. 
 Bright hours that all too quickly flew 
 Return once more and weave anew 
 Those broken links in memory's chain 
 That /may be a child again. 
 Let memory's treasures still be mine, 
 Those jewels from the heart's deep shrine, 
 And brightly through long vanished years 
 Will come sweet childhood's smiles and tears. 
 Within my heart I 've reared a throne, 
 Fond memory hath made it all her own ; 
 And sweeter than the flowers of early spring 
 Are the buds from memory's blossoming. 
 Memories of other days, once more ye bring 
 Scenes round which my heart doth cling. 
 And from the wreath of childhood's love 
 Ye cometh like some lonely dove. 
 And when within this heart of gloom, 
 Where withered hopes no more may bloom, 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 63 
 
 Will bud sweet flowers on memory's shore 
 Of the happy days that come no more : 
 Though clouds may sometimes cross my sky 
 And sorrow's tear may dim mine eye, 
 Yet memory's star, so pure and bright, 
 Shall gild with joy my darkest night. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF OUR GALLANT DEAD. 
 
 Ij^ONDLY from my heart's deep chords I '11 sing 
 Of the noble and the brave— 
 Of glory's torch, and freedom's star, 
 That shines o'er the soldier's grave. 
 
 A song I '11 sing of the sunny South, 
 
 Of our noble warriors slain, 
 Who oft hath heard the battle shout 
 
 Upon each bloody plain. 
 
 'Tis here our brave and gallant boys, 
 
 Of high and gentle birth, 
 Went forth against the vandal force 
 
 To win or strew the earth. 
 
G4 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Yes, here in 1113* own sunny South 
 
 Is many a lonely mound — p 
 
 Oh ! precious is each resting place — 
 
 To me 'tis sacred ground. 
 
 They breathed away life's lingering sigh — 
 
 Oh ! bravely did the} r toil — 
 Their lives were freel} r , nobl}" given, 
 
 To free their native soil. 
 
 Away in dear Virginia's valley 
 
 Our heroes unawakened sleep : 
 Brave hearts ! the}' faced the storm of death 
 
 As on each foe the} r 'd sweep. 
 
 Amid the din and roar of battle 
 
 The noblest of our land were found, 
 
 As o'er the purple-mantled hills 
 Their life-blood dyed the ground. 
 
 Here our banners' folds were borne, 
 
 As a symbol of that power, 
 Whose sheltering wings should shield our homes 
 
 In freedom's happy hour. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 65 
 
 But it has passed, the storm is o'er, 
 
 No more their voiees rend the air; 
 The grave now shields each manly breast, 
 
 The}' '11 dream no more of grief and care. 
 
 Within their graves the}' sweetly sleep, 
 They hear no more the battle's roar ; 
 
 They '11 hear no more the tyrant's tread, 
 Nor feel his power more. 
 
 Oh never shall their noble pride 
 
 E'er bend the conquered knee, 
 For cold in death are those brave hearts, 
 
 Proud sons of liberty. 
 
 Yet round their dear and cherished deeds 
 
 Are clouds of living fame ; 
 Each deed on history's spotless page 
 
 Will brighten at their name. 
 
 Round their names, like heaven, is bent 
 
 The light of endless power, 
 Which glowing bright with quenchless flame 
 
 In the dark avenging hour. 
 
66 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Then rest, brave boys, ye gallant dead, 
 
 Oh bravely did ye toil ; 
 Your lives were freely, nobly given, 
 
 To free your native soil. 
 
 YOU BID ME GO WITH WORDS OF SCORN. 
 
 X^OU bid me go with words of scorn — 
 ■*■ Thou hast my heart bereaved ; 
 M} r brightest hopes must find a tomb 
 
 In the heart thou hast deceived. 
 Oh ! we have had some happy hours, 
 
 Sweet in their fancied light, 
 But they have fled, those golden hours, 
 
 Far in the noon of night. 
 
 Our young love in its early morn 
 
 With joy and bliss was rife ; 
 Ah ! a brighter dream we '11 never know, 
 
 It was our strength and life: 
 It told of hopes and joys to come 
 
 On wings of peace and love — 
 Hopes that knew no withering breath, 
 
 But bloomed in beauty above. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 67 
 
 But it hath passed, there comes no light 
 
 To my unfathomed soul — 
 Each dream hath fled, and anguish deep 
 
 Hath on my spirit stole. 
 You bid me go ! can you forget 
 
 Those happy dreams of bliss 
 That bade our hearts with hope rejoice 
 
 Mid a world of care like this? 
 
 Ah ! tell me not thou canst forget 
 
 Those happy days gone by ; 
 The joys that lulled our youthful breasts 
 
 Will to each throb reply. 
 Fare-thee-well ! each hope hath vanished ; 
 
 Soon the buds of love shall fade ; 
 Yet may blessings rest upon thee, 
 
 Though thy love is now decayed. 
 
IX MEMORY OF JAMES W. BOWIE. 
 
 WRITTEN AT A FRIEND'S REQUEST. 
 
 PRECIOUS is each thought of thee, 
 Friend and comrade dear ; 
 And soothing to ray heart has been 
 
 Each sad and silent tear. 
 My comrade, my comrade dear, 
 
 How dear thou wert to me ! 
 In joy or sorrow, health or pain, 
 
 My heart still turns to tliee ; 
 Ah ! memory fondly wanders back, 
 
 And dwells mid gushing tears 
 Upon thy short, sad, hapless life, 
 
 Thy few sad, changing years. 
 The music of thy manly voice 
 
 Breathed ever at one's will ; 
 Each tone was full of melody 
 
 Our hearts with love to fill: 
 68 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 69 
 
 Thy deeds have gained a lofty name — 
 
 Oh long will they endure — 
 And soothingly 'twill greet my ear 
 
 To hear of one so true. 
 But thou art gone — no stranger's tread 
 
 Steps near thy resting plaee ; 
 You fell beneath the bayonet's gleam, 
 
 An honor to thy race. 
 Although no stone may mark the spot 
 
 Where lonely sleeps the brave, 
 Thy might}^ deeds shall ever live, 
 
 Thy glory hath no grave. 
 But thou art gone, like fading stars 
 
 That take their wings of flight, 
 Ere from the darkened brow of heaven 
 
 They pale and sink in night. 
 Then fare-thee-well, my comrade true, 
 
 comrade strong and brave — 
 I '11 love and guard with anxious care 
 
 Thy sad and lonely grave. 
 
 T 
 
 Jfyr 
 
TO A WILD FLOWER. 
 
 TTOW sweetly blooms this lovely flower 
 -*--*- That came with spring to me — 
 It brings to me sweet, happy thoughts, 
 Of days that used to be. 
 
 I found it in yon shady dell, 
 
 Near by the moonlit grove, 
 Where no mingled prints of childish feet 
 
 E'er come in joy to rove. 
 
 How like a gleam of hope it shines, 
 
 In all its beauty wild, 
 As bearing its sweet incense up, 
 
 So pure and without guile. 
 
 Oh it is beautiful ! every bud 
 Seems some gentle fairy's home ; 
 
 E'en the silver star-beams love it well 
 From their bright, mysterious dome. 
 
 10 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Bright is this flower that blossoms wild 
 
 Amid the gay spring hours, 
 With leaves and buds too fair to fade 
 
 With its frail sister flowers. 
 
 Fit emblem for the early dead, 
 Thou gem so sweet and mild, 
 
 As, glittering with the dew of morn, 
 Each sunbeam on thee smiled. 
 
 Then bloom, thou bright and lovely one, 
 Amid the woodland bowers ; 
 
 Thou art too bright and fair to fade 
 With thy frail sister flowers. 
 
 71 
 
 LINES. 
 
 T 
 
 HEY try to teach me to forget 
 The constant love of yore ; 
 They bid me cast thee from my heart ; 
 I only love thee more. 
 
 They bid me seek in festal halls 
 
 The joys of long ago; 
 They little dream no joy can light 
 
 The depth of my sad woe. 
 
72 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATII. 
 
 They tell me that thy heart is stone, 
 
 Thy love for me is o'er; 
 That hopes I knew in other years 
 
 Thou never eanst restore. 
 
 Their words I scorn, I listen not, 
 
 For in fond memory's ear 
 There comes again, in accents sweet, 
 
 Thy voice of love to cheer. 
 
 Yes, in thy soul my image reigns, 
 
 My life thy being doth pervade ; 
 Our hearts shall blend with mightier love 
 E'en when life's morn shall fade. 
 
 TO LITTLE JOHNNY. 
 
 f" NE'ER have gazed upon thy face, 
 •*- Thou child of beauty rare — 
 Ne'er heard thy silveiy, flute-like tone, 
 Nor pressed thy brow so fair. 
 
 I ne'er have seen the gentle smile 
 That wreathes th} r infant face — 
 
 Thy dimpled cheeks and azure eyes, 
 All marked with winning grace. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 13 
 
 And yet I love thee, darling one, 
 
 Love thee fond and well ; 
 I long to clasp thee to my heart, 
 
 Sweet baby, there to dwell. 
 
 My heart doth for thy presence yearn, 
 
 For smile and soft caress — 
 And though this blessing may ne'er be mine 
 
 I will not love thee less. 
 
 Oh may thy tender infant mind 
 
 Receive the seeds of truth, 
 That they may yield their fragrance in 
 
 The early dawn of youth. 
 
 MY BABY'S GRAVE. 
 
 FAR away in my own native home 
 Is hid a baby face, 
 Where waving flowers in beauty bloom 
 
 Above his resting-place. 
 My angel boy like flowers of earth 
 Drooped but to bloom again ; 
 His gentle spirit has sought that clime 
 Where all are free from pain. 
 
74 BUDS PROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 He seemeth near, yet he is gone — 
 
 Gone with his looks of love — 
 Yet he will be a link to me 
 
 In the chain of light above. 
 I should not mourn that he is gone 
 
 From this dark world of pain, 
 But kiss the hand that deeply made 
 
 My loss to be his gain. 
 Yet would that I were near that spot 
 
 Where, 'neath the moonlit heaven,. 
 Is laid to rest my cherub boy, 
 
 That place to memory given. 
 There, on the sad, sad, whispering breeze 
 
 Comes the perfume of sweet flowers, 
 Sad emblems of the joj^s and hopes 
 
 That crowned his baby hours. 
 Ah! from that sweet and sacred spot, 
 
 From that dear little tomb, 
 Could I but cull one single bud — 
 
 Just one — in its sweet bloom ; 
 Could I but kneel by that loved grave, 
 
 Near by m} r frosted flower, 
 And breathe once more, mid gushing tears, 
 
 A prayer for strengthening power! 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 15 
 
 It may not be— and yet my babe, 
 
 With eyes all full of love, 
 Is hovering ever round me here 
 
 From yon bright home above. 
 I '11 crush the grief within my heart, 
 
 I '11 check the rising tear — 
 It brings not back the hopes that were, 
 
 Nor joys that once were dear. 
 I '11 cast the gloom from off my brow, 
 
 I '11 hide all grief and care ; 
 I '11 look to Heaven for strength and light, 
 
 My angel boy is there. 
 In that heaven, that glorious world, 
 
 Where grief and tears are o'er, 
 1 '11 dwell in peace and happiness 
 With Eddie, on Eden's shore. 
 
 r^ 
 
 *s£S '.:t- 
 
Oil! WOULD THAT WE HAD NEVER MET 
 
 fX\\ ! would that we had never met, 
 
 Since we are doomed to part; 
 And yet the memory of the past 
 
 Will live within my heart. 
 
 The thoughts of all thy tender words 
 
 Are lingering with me yet; 
 1 Peel thy glance, so full of love, 
 
 Ah ! how can I forget I 
 
 Oh! thou didst shed such gladness 
 
 Upon my lonely heart — 
 I »u t now my soul with grief is wrung 
 
 To know that we must. part. 
 
 Had we hut met in other years, 
 
 When thou ami I were free, 
 
 'Twould not have harmed \'o\- me to feel 
 
 I was beloved of thee. 
 7G 
 
BUDS FROM MKMohv 8 WREATH. 
 
 J>ut hitter is the thought to me 
 That another shares thy heart; 
 
 I '11 drown in tears a life of pain, 
 And live life's bitter part. 
 
 Oh ! shall we ever meet again 
 
 As we last fondly met — 
 Say, do you deem it all too soon 
 
 To let the heart forget? 
 
 Ah! do not let all thoughts of me 
 
 From out thy soul depart, 
 But let me share with her you love 
 
 A place within thy heart. 
 
 Thy memory still within my mind 
 Will hold its sweetest power, 
 
 Recalling form, sweet Looks, and tones 
 Given in love's own hour. 
 
 n 
 
 sBj* 
 
M 
 
 TO .A1Y COUSIN, (WIT. J. D. BRANDON. 
 
 rpHESE buds I Bend from "Memory's Wreath" 
 ■*- Were culled in days gone by, 
 When golden hopes sereuely glowed, 
 A rainbow in the sky. 
 
 Til 03- '11 bring to mind the days o\" old, 
 
 They '11 bid old memories start; 
 Then hold them as a link between 
 
 Thy past and my lone heart. 
 
 Oh let them still within thy heart 
 
 Retain a magic power ; 
 They yet conceal a rich perfume 
 
 That tells thee o( the Bower. 
 
 And yet, though time has dimmed their sheen, 
 And robbed thorn of their gold, 
 
 Oh hold them in affection's guise, 
 Beautiful Still, as in days of old. 
 78 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 79 
 
 Yes, faded is my glorious wreath, 
 It drooped 'neath sorrow's wing; 
 
 Yet from the buds and withered leaves 
 Let happy memories spring. 
 
 Though of its bloom it is bereft — 
 
 Its buds no longer gay — 
 The fragrance still may prove a joy, 
 
 A solitary ray. 
 
 Then let them in thy memory bloom, 
 
 They '11 bid old memories start ; 
 Tears fell upon eaeh blossom pale — - 
 
 lay them on thy heart ! 
 
 THAT" OLDEN SONG. 
 
 /"\II sing onee more that olden song, 
 ^ Its strains my heart doth eheer ; 
 For gloomy clouds hang o'er my way, 
 My soul is dark and drear. 
 
 Sweet thoughts of old, like pilgrims, thron; 
 
 While listening to thy strain, 
 And midst the tempest of my grief 
 
 It charms my weary brain. 
 
80 BUDS PROM MEMORY'S WREATH, 
 
 Thai 8011 g 1 it has one EMen spot. 
 
 To cheer life's bitter stream — 
 It, has tlu i blessed power to wake 
 
 My soul from sorrow's dream. 
 
 Then let each thrilling note gush forth, 
 
 Let. joy again re bloom ; 
 Yes, let that song of olden days 
 
 Spring forth from memory's tomb. 
 
 oil! WOULD 1 WERE A CHILD A ( ; A 1 N 
 
 /\ll ! would l were a child again, 
 
 AN* it 1 1 heart untouched by sorrow's blight 
 To tread once more In childish glee 
 Life's happy way with spirits light. 
 
 Bright were those 1 ihiys, () childhood free, 
 When hope, with fair and potent wand, 
 
 Made all things bright as sapphire's hue, 
 And made my heart with Idiss expand. 
 
 In that sweet lime, bright childhood's hour, 
 
 No gloomy doubts my heart oppressed ; 
 And beaUty in a thousand forms 
 Made bright elvsium oi' mv breast. 
 
i:i Dfl PROM MEMORY'S WREATH. SI 
 
 Ah! childhood's woof was passing fair 
 In those, sweet days of yore ; 
 
 Then WOUld I were :i, child again, 
 
 With the hopes I felt before. 
 
 Yes, would I were :i child again, 
 
 With happy dreams and cheerful heart, 
 To feel again each hope and joy 
 Of young life's happy part. 
 
 faded lightl .joyous hours ! 
 Bright star upon the wave of lifel 
 
 1 Ml ever bear them in my lonely heart 
 
 As a charm mid the dark world's strife. 
 
 () for the happy smiles of yore 
 That blessed those golden hours, 
 
 And for the scenes with hlcssin " • fraught 
 
 A mid youth's early flowers ! 
 But they are gone, sweet childhood days, 
 
 They held their bright delusive reign ; 
 My saddened spirit now wakes to know 
 
 They ne'er can be restored again. 
 
A PRAYER. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR MY LITTLE ONES. 
 
 "ITTE come to thee, O Saviour, 
 ' ' And on the bended knee 
 Wo ask thy kind protection, 
 
 Our hearts from sin set free : 
 Look down whilst we are kneeling 
 
 All sad before thy throne ; 
 Enfold ns with thy meroj', 
 
 Thou great and glorious one. 
 
 Wo oome to thee as suppliants now 
 
 A youthful, sinful band — 
 We kneel, a blessing to reoeivo 
 
 From God our father's hand. 
 O bless us now as thus we kneel, 
 
 And hear each youthful prayer. 
 That we in holiness may dwell 
 
 In heaven, where angels arc 
 
 82 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 83 
 
 Lord, let thy love surround us 
 
 With pure and strengthening light — 
 Let dangers, woe, and suffering 
 
 Our paths no more benight; 
 Fill our hearts with love for thee, 
 
 And Oh ! our sins forgive ; 
 One God to oivn, one power to feel 
 
 That we with Thee may live. 
 
 We hear Tl^ precious blood was shed 
 
 To cleanse us from all sin ; 
 Then wash us white within that blood 
 
 That Christ may reign within : 
 Let our souls with Thee be filled, 
 
 Shine Thou with gladdening ray, 
 That we may reign with Thee on high 
 
 When life has passed away. 
 
AUTUMN LEAVES. 
 
 "I WATCH the loaves fall Bad and drear, 
 ' Memorial of gay summer hours; 
 The cool winds come with chilling breath 
 To blight the few sweet blossomed flower 
 
 Eaoh Leaf droops in its bower of green 
 Ami with mournful glory falls, 
 
 And like voices from some distant shore 
 Eohoing tones from childhood's halls. 
 
 Bach yellow leaf, as home by ohilling gale 
 
 Palls on the dimpled waves, 
 Ami i rills sweetly in its dazzling How 
 
 As the jewelled sands the water laves. 
 1 hear eaeh note of the Lonely bird. 
 
 Alone her seme,- she weaves, 
 
 For drooping she sits within the bowers 
 
 Of sad autumn's withered Leaves. 
 
 si 
 
BUDS PROM MEMORY'S WREATH. M; r > 
 
 And 'Us ever thus along life's way 
 
 I watch its cherished flowers, 
 That withering hang, all sad and drear, 
 
 'Neath the wina of bitter hours. 
 
 LITTLE NELL. 
 
 LA V her to rest where the violets grow, 
 Let the green grass over her wave; 
 Where the gay bright flowers earliest bloom, 
 O make ye there, her grave ! 
 
 
 
 Where the bright stars gem the sky of even, 
 Where the meadow streamlets flow, 
 
 All fearless of blight and withering, 
 Let her sweetly sleep below. 
 
 Lay her where the wild birds sing 
 
 A hove her Lonely grave, 
 Where Lilies and blue-bells deck the plain, 
 
 And the cypress loves to wave. 
 
80 BUDS PROM MEMORY'S WREATH 
 
 There lay her in the silent tomb 
 
 In all her youthful loveliness; 
 She has gone to her home beyond the skies, 
 
 No more our sorrowing hearts to bless. 
 
 Forever arc those fringed orbs closed. 
 
 Unshod the voice we loved so well ; 
 Sad the hopeless yearnings for one we love. 
 
 Who never more with ns may dwell. 
 
 Angels guided her through death's dark night 
 To Him who alone His lambs can bless; 
 
 A blight on our fairest hopes has come, 
 Yet He will not leave ns comfortless. 
 
 lie will give ns strength to bear our grief, 
 Will wipe away each bitter tear, 
 
 Will light with hope the dismal tomb 
 To soothe the pangs of parting here. 
 
 Then lay her to rest where the violets grow, 
 Let the green grass o'er her wave ; 
 
 Where the gay bright (lowers earliest bloom, 
 make ye there her grave ! 
 
Oil! WOULD THAT] COULD CRUSH THE 
 GRIEF. 
 
 6 ill ! would that I could crush the gri f 
 ^' That mis my lonely heart! 
 Could check each hot and blinding tear 
 
 That will unhidden start: 
 The cherished hopes once, dearly prized 
 
 Are wrecks decaying on the shore; 
 The waves of sorrow cast each fragment there 
 
 With all the Beauty once they wore. 
 Even in my hours of wakeful dreams 
 
 Sad disappointment sinks my soul, 
 And round my wild and restless heart 
 
 G-rief wields its stern control. 
 I try each cankering care to crush, 
 
 Still dark thoughts around me throng j 
 
 I sink beneath sad fortune's blow — 
 
 <) God] who can be strong? 
 
 
88 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Then, tired of earth and all its woe, 
 
 Of life's deceitful happiness, 
 I '11 seek the unfading joys of heaven, 
 
 I '11 dream no more of earthly bliss. 
 Son of God, give me that strength divine 
 
 Such as to thee was given ; 
 Teach me to quell each passion wild ; 
 
 fit my soul for heaven ! 
 
 TO MY BROTHER, 
 
 AH! slowly, sadly falls the sigh, 
 ^ Fraught with grief and tears, 
 And wearily the hours waste away 
 
 To join those of departed years. 
 Slow and sad each day goes b} r , 
 
 Bearing the voice of mirth away, 
 Leaving me here in grief to pine 
 
 Until the dawn of a brighter day. 
 
 Time, unmindful of hearts that thrill- 
 Tears from eyes that wildly weep — 
 
 Sweeps on amid his reckless course, 
 Leaving each heart its own to keep. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 89 
 
 Sunk in the wintry storm of care, 
 
 Like leaves torn from the fragrant tree, 
 
 Is my poor heart here left to mourn, 
 Filled with grief for thee. 
 
 To give thee up caused bitter tears, 
 
 And made my bosom heave and swell ; 
 The crushing weight, with all its pain, 
 
 Was felt in our sad farewell. 
 But hope, with all her magic power, 
 
 Came for awhile my heart to cheer, 
 Telling me thou wouldst come again 
 
 With me life's joys to share. 
 
 But time bereft my trusting heart 
 
 Of hopes that once were dear, 
 And sadness still my days beguile — 
 
 Thou art still away, thou art not here. 
 Yes, sorrow o'er my soul still reigns — 
 
 Grief's silent shadow veils my brow — 
 The voice of friends my sorrows may not break — 
 
 Why dost thou linger — where art thou now? 
 
MY WOODLAND HOME. 
 
 "TV EAR is my own sweet woodland home 
 ■^ When spring awakes to beauty and bloom ; 
 Where dewdrops besprinkle their blossoms of love, 
 And the heavens flash brightly through the gloom. 
 
 There soft blows the wind, and fresh from the lea 
 Swells in low liquid numbers the streamlet's sweet 
 song ; 
 
 The clear silvery tone of the murmuring tide 
 Chants sweet music as it dashes along. 
 
 Near by my own sweet woodland home 
 
 Bright leaves quiver to and fro, 
 And I listen for hours in calm delight 
 
 To the sighing winds so soft and low. 
 
 There the breeze rises with rustling swell ; 
 
 Mournfully it comes through the pines on the hill ; 
 And through the tall branches, all gleaming and 
 bright, 
 Comes the pale evening star with its beauty to 
 thrill. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 91 
 
 'Tis there the flowers are richest in bloom, 
 There the sun shines brightest above ; 
 
 While Nature, all dressed in her loveliest garb, 
 Ever wears smiles of joy and love. 
 
 I love the flowers that early bloom 
 
 Down where the swa} T ing willows dip — 
 
 Where the birds flit forth from spray to tree, 
 Or gently bathe from the fountain's lip. 
 
 Then to my own dear home I '11 go — 
 
 Again through the woodlands I will roam, 
 
 To hear once more the gay birds' notes, 
 To be where wild flowers have their home. 
 
 i 
 
 TO IRENE. 
 
 DREAM of thee, darling, 
 
 When all the earth is with beauty rife, 
 When lovely flowers awake to life, 
 And every heart with joy is blithe, 
 I dream of thee. 
 
92 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 I dream of thee, darling, 
 When gales come breathing from the rosy west, 
 When joy hath lulled my heart to rest, 
 When stars gleam in the midnight sky, 
 And the waters murmur sweet melody ; 
 When my lonely spirit wakes to know 
 Life's vanities and all its woe, 
 
 Darling, I dream of thee. 
 
 I dream of thee, darling, 
 When silently I muse on the long ago, 
 Recalling notes soft and low. 
 Of friends who have joined the sainted band 
 Waiting for us in Eden's land — 
 
 Then I dream of thee. 
 
 TO IDA BELL. 
 
 T TWINE for thee a garland fair 
 -*- Made up of leaflets bright — 
 No canker worm is feasting there 
 
 Its loveliness to blight : 
 Upon each bud of beauty rare, 
 
 Upon each blossom gay, 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 93 
 
 Is breathed for thee a prayer of love 
 
 No time can e'er decay. 
 Oh ! may those flowers of richest bloom 
 
 Breathe forth a semblance fair — 
 May thy young life of beauty's mould 
 
 Ne'er know one hour of care. 
 Yes, may'st thou in thine early morn 
 
 Be like these flowers fair, 
 Nor rest upon thy pure white brow 
 
 One canker-worm of care. 
 
 MARY QUEEN OP SCOTS PRAYING 
 BEFORE HER EXECUTION. 
 
 n FATHER! still thou this fell despair 
 ^ That swells my tortured breast: 
 let me sleep, for we all must sleep 
 
 In death's unbroken rest. 
 O draw me from my grief away — - 
 
 Help me to meet my doom ; 
 Each day but adds its weight of grief— 
 
 The best has fled, the worst has yet to come 
 
94 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 What hopes, what joys have fled away 
 
 To slumber in the happy past ! 
 Yet o'er life's fragments tremble still 
 
 Memories of joys that could not last ; 
 On my heart Grief's hand is pressing — 
 
 Life's brightest flowers are faded ; 
 I weep from the depths of my desert soul 
 
 O'er hopes forever shaded ; 
 To my soul there comes a yearning 
 
 For the jo} r s forever flown ; 
 My heart is filled with burning tears 
 
 For the happy past, now gone. 
 Oh! in this dark and stormy hour 
 
 Hear Thou my fervent prayer ; 
 Let faith give sweet tranquillity 
 
 From thy pure presence there. 
 Soothe this heart of all its fears — 
 
 Oh ! dry my weeping eye : 
 I plead ! O Heaven, in mercy hear 
 
 My anxious, fervent cry. 
 
CARRIERS' ADDRESS FOR THE NEW 
 YEAR, 18?1. 
 
 T BRING sweet hopes for our sorrowing land, 
 
 J- Sweet music tones from a loyal band : 
 
 Each heart now drinks of its fiery breath 
 
 As they strive to wear the living wreath ; 
 
 Each pulse of their spirit with freedom swells — 
 
 Born of the soul, in each fibre it dwells. 
 
 Ah ! the waving wing of Democracy's band 
 
 Is sweeping the air of our Southern land ; 
 
 The air is burdened with Freedom's sweet breath, 
 
 No echo comes from the Radical's death — 
 
 For a withering blast and a mildew blight 
 
 Hath covered their life in blackest night. 
 
 There are buds, bright buds, in the New-year's 
 
 wreath — 
 Let our souls be thrilled with their perfumed breath, 
 And the balmy scent which their petals fling 
 Will soothe our souls like the air of spring. 
 
 95 
 
96 BUDS PROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Oh! sorrowing land, let US pause and think — 
 
 Let Freedom glide through each glowing link ; 
 
 Yes, pause and grasp bright Freedom's flowers, 
 
 Fresh from Democracy's loyal bowers. 
 
 Heed my words and yet closer throng 
 
 Around the right in this land of song: 
 
 Our life's fair page with grief is Bpread, 
 
 With ghosts from I/w past and tones from the dead, 
 
 Our country's good! what it speaks shall not we? 
 
 For buds of/iope on its brow we see, 
 
 And //tote hopes to us arc given, 
 
 Telling us of the justice of Heaven. 
 
 Then why grieve? with vain doubt* away — 
 
 There dawns for us a brighter day: 
 
 Though our hearts now heave 'neath the fiery pall. 
 
 Sweet notes from Freedom's music fall : 
 
 Then take my greeting, O much loved land! 
 
 Remain forever an unbroken band; 
 
 Let a glorious calm o'er each heart be cast, 
 
 A day of joy will come at last. 
 
 ^^3/ 
 ^ 
 
w 
 
 THE 0BEEK QJRL'S MUSINGS. 
 
 HAT is life to this wrecked heart — 
 What to my soul the yearning tor that "long 
 
 When / in ecstasy could soar to Eden's gate 
 
 [n spired by love's own spell? Alas! those hosts 
 
 oT blessed memories, 
 That wove a wild fantastic dream about my young 
 
 life, 
 
 Will come again no more, weaving a, glad and 
 
 happy measure 
 Responsive to my poor heart's accordant beat. 
 More pure than Alpine snows was my young life 
 Ere thou with poisonous breath breathed upon the" 
 Ermine of my soul! But withering now hang life's 
 Cherished gems beneath the wing of bitter hours, 
 While deep in my inmost soul are set the serpent's 
 
 fangs. 
 
 07 
 
<)8 ]U!DS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Deep is my anguish, God! and wrecked is this 
 
 proud heart — 
 The heart that beats with a wronged woman's 
 
 power ! 
 Oh! 1 have loved with a deep idolatry: my life 
 
 has poured 
 Its very essence at his feet — 'twas Tus, all his — 
 An hundred //res blended into one. 
 Father! search thou my deep, unquiet heart, 
 And soothe it in its agony. Thou knowest 
 How much of sorrow, grief, and shame my young 
 
 life 
 lias had to bear from him who should* have held 
 
 me up 
 With hand and heart. 'Tis over now — 
 The sharpest pang is over, and I must tread 
 Alone life's weary way: o'er my heart the iron years 
 Must pass wearily and slow. 
 
 The past! It never more may come, for shame hath 
 Stained ni} r lofty name, and gone arc the lights 
 
 whose lustre gave 
 A radiant glory to dreams now fled. 
 liife! with all its poetry of 3-outh — 
 The joy of existence — lost for evermore' 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. '.)!) 
 
 While year after year fills the soul with their dark 
 
 weight, 
 Bearing like a dim funeral torch each hope 
 To the chirk grave below. 
 Poor heart! call cold indifference to thy aid, 
 And forth into the world amid the thoughtless 
 
 crowd 
 Bear thy secret with thee. 
 
 'Tis a fearful task the heart's wild grief to chain, 
 To hush the deep gush of sorrow, and silently 
 Its swift current to still; to feel and know 
 The heart is breaking, yet " breakingly lives on." 
 Oh! what human sight can pierce 
 Thai darkness, </<-fj>cr than l/ic darkest night, 
 Which o'crshadows misery's child ? 
 Yet it has passed: 1 mourn a radiant star forever 
 
 gone, 
 And reft of its bright gleamings ; I wee}) 
 Above my lone spirit's silent gloom: 
 Each string of my heart's deep chords that swelled 
 With memories of the past hath burst upon its lyre, 
 And mournfully it echoes its own sad tones 
 In sorrow's darkest hour. 
 
LINES ON LEAVING HOME. 
 
 jrpiS midnight, the lamp burns low, 
 
 •*- I watch its fading light ; 
 As dies its rays amid the gloom 
 
 A tear bedims my sight : 
 'Tis one I should not blush to shed, 
 
 It tells of a happy day, 
 Of holy hours and joyous scenes 
 
 That cheered my lonely way. 
 
 A sorrow rests within my heart, 
 
 Fled are those dreams so pure, 
 For I must break the silken cord, 
 
 Must speak the sad adieu. 
 Why should I dread the cruel fate 
 
 That flings my joy to earth? 
 My lonely thoughts will ever dwell 
 
 'Mid scenes of gladsome mirth. 
 100 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 101 
 
 There 's one whose form will ever serve 
 
 To light me on my way ; 
 In all her magic beaut}'' rise 
 
 Like } r on bright orb of day: 
 And when, amidst the busy throng, 
 
 My spirit feels its grief, 
 I '11 turn me to sweet thoughts of her 
 
 And find a sweet relief. 
 
 And there are other loved ones still 
 
 To whom my thoughts are given — 
 The comrades of my early years — 
 
 Ties never to be riven : 
 And through the darkness of the past 
 
 One thought I '11 give them yet ; 
 Like the spirit of sweet beauty lost 
 
 Their love I '11 ne'er forget. 
 
CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 
 
 piIRISTMAS is here, yet it brings no joy 
 
 V^ To my poor lonely heart : 
 
 Oh ! heavy is the shadow passing o'er me, 
 
 For we are still apart. 
 The sickness of hope too long deferred 
 
 Doth longest haunt the heart — 
 It comes with grief and anguish laden, 
 
 Crushing the soul's divinest part. 
 
 Such grief to-night is flitting o'er me, 
 
 Woe's shades are falling fast ; 
 Old memories, whose music is undying, 
 
 Brings back again the past. 
 This hopeless watching for thee, mine own — 
 
 Oh! watching, alas! in vain — 
 Who can calm this heart's deep agony ! 
 
 Thou ne'er wilt come again. 
 102 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 103 
 
 Our little ones are mad with joy, 
 
 Their dear eyes dance with glee ; 
 They bid me join them in their sports 
 
 Alas ! my heart 's with thee. 
 Our baby boy with tones of love 
 
 Bids me look and see 
 How some fairy's hand with magic touch 
 
 Hath decked the Christmas tree. 
 
 I hear each little voice murm'ring soft 
 
 Around the Christmas bowers, 
 And yet my lone heart feels its grief 
 
 Among our earthly flowers. 
 They are happy, they know no pain, 
 
 No joys, forever flown ; 
 To them this life is all sunshine, 
 
 They do not feel alone. 
 
 Yet I would ever have them gay, 
 
 Like the music breathing sea ; 
 I 'd have their young hearts ever swept 
 
 By notes of childish glee. 
 Yet there comes no joy to cheer 
 
 This sad and lonely heart ; 
 Oh ! heavy is the shadow passing o'er me, 
 
 For we are still apart. 
 
LINES. 
 
 ~PvO 3 t ou ever think of mc 
 
 •* ' In thy home far, far away — 
 
 Do dreams of me e'er fling 
 
 Their brightness round thy way 
 Does memory ever o'er thy heart 
 
 Its buds of perfume throw — 
 Do joys of other happier years 
 In sunlit beauty glow? 
 
 Dost ever come m}' low, sad tones 
 
 Like music on thine ear, 
 With strange sweet influence to sustain 
 
 Thy lonely heart, thy spirit cheer? 
 Dost wait and wait in vain 
 
 For me thou lovest so well, 
 Then sadly and mournfully turn away 
 
 With thy lone thoughts to dwell? 
 104 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. L05 
 
 let my spirit, brightly gleaming. 
 
 Come thy weary heart to bless ; 
 One single ray may cheer thy life, 
 
 And lull thy soul's unrest; 
 Let thoughts of me thy spirit sweep, 
 
 Soft as summer sea; 
 While in dark hours of loneliness 
 
 This heart will turn to Uiee. 
 
 TO MY FATHER. 
 
 rpiIY noble form with age is bowed, 
 ■** Dim is now thine eye ; 
 Whilst o'er thy brow the iron years 
 
 Are like shadows passing by : 
 Thy locks, all frosted o'er with age, 
 
 Hath stood life's rushing blast, 
 And never can time's surging waves 
 
 1 J ring back again the past. 
 
 Years pass on — you soon must go, 
 
 With others gone before, 
 To join the loved of other years 
 
 On the dim eternal shore : 
 
106 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Yes, life's mighty tide is rushing fast, 
 
 Thy race will soon be run ; 
 Oh ! may I know upon thy brow 
 
 Will rest God's glorious sun. 
 
 Thou art the falling leaf in Nature's bower, 
 
 Life seems to thee less glad ; 
 For time and change, with ceaseless flow, 
 
 "Makes hearts lose joys that once they had. 1 ' 
 
 BLIND WILLIE'S DREAM. 
 
 T AST night I had a dream, Mother, 
 -*-* Of that glorious Eden world, 
 Where star-eyed angels round the throne 
 Their golden wings unfurled. 
 
 'Twas there I saw bright flowers, Mother, 
 And heard sweet waters play ; 
 
 No storms the fair bright blossoms blight, 
 Spring reigns one unending day. 
 
 In heaven 'tis one long, deep delight, 
 
 And by the flowing tide 
 I wish my home might be forever, 
 
 Where God's own fountains glide. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 107 
 
 J saw sweet Genie again, dear Mother, 
 
 With eyes so purely bright; 
 While on her fair and childish brow 
 
 Beamed peace and holy light. 
 
 I dreamed that she with gentle touch 
 
 Her arms around me wound — 
 My head upon her heart was pressed — 
 
 I had my Genie found. 
 
 Ah ! it was but a dream, Mother, 
 
 Again on earth's dull shore 
 My weary steps must sadly tread — 
 
 I 'm blind for evermore. 
 
I GIVE THEE BACK THY FAITHLESS 
 HEART. 
 
 T GIVE thee back thy faithless heart, 
 -*- Of it I claim no share ; 
 Dimmed is the glory of life's star, 
 Perished are hopes that were. 
 
 Alas ! this fond heart never dreamed 
 Those hopes would e'er be gone ; 
 
 That clouds would come in fearful gloom 
 To shroud them in their dawn. 
 
 But sin hath thy young manhood marred, 
 Thy morning's flush hath faded, 
 
 And dimmed the radiance of a star 
 That once my life pervaded. 
 
 The roses of my life are gone, 
 This heart thou hast betrayed ; 
 
 No sunshine can their bloom restore, 
 Affection's buds are all decayed. 
 
 108 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 109 
 
 From out this sad and ruined heart, 
 
 Where youthful hopes decay, 
 Will beam no more joy's beacon light, 
 
 Its rays have fled away. 
 
 Yes, my glorious dream is broken, 
 
 TJiy hand my misery wrought ; 
 A worn and broken heart I bear — 
 
 E'en that could move thee not. 
 
 Thy children's tears were vainly shed, 
 
 And still their cheeks are wet ; 
 How couldst thou crush with "iron jiaw" 
 
 Hearts that are bleeding yet ! 
 
 Farewell! this wrecked heart must brave 
 Sad disappointment and despair, 
 
 Which but for thee bright hopes might cull 
 To bloom and blossom there. 
 
THE WEARY DAY HAS PASSED AND 
 GONE. 
 
 rPTIE weary clay has passed and gone, 
 •*- While shadows dark and drear 
 Have crept around my lonely heart , 
 
 For thou, love, art not here. 
 I miss thee in my lonely hours, 
 
 I sigh for thy dear face ; 
 For well I know tl^r presence, love 1 , 
 
 Would each dull care erase. 
 
 I miss thy gentle smile, love, 
 
 Thy voice of sweetest tone ; 
 The voice that ere in joy or grief 
 
 Kespondeth to mine own. 
 I miss the kind and gentle words 
 
 That moved me like a spell ; 
 The smiles that beamed within thine eye : 
 
 Their power I knowcth well. 
 110 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 1 I I 
 
 My heart is bowed with sorrow deep, 
 
 It throbs in joyless numbers ; 
 And, like the mourner bowed in prayer, 
 
 My soul in hope ne'er slumbers. 
 Through the night air comes thy voice, 
 
 It brings sweet words to me ; 
 That voice, it falls upon my ear, 
 
 Like some low sweet melody. 
 
 Softly they come, those low deep tones, 
 
 Like sweetest strains now stealing ; 
 A joy now in my bosom reigns, 
 
 A joy of purest feeling ; 
 Thy looks of love again I see, 
 
 And truant fancy now doth stray 
 Back to those joj'ous, happy hours 
 
 When we were light and gay. 
 
 Ah ! well I know thy generous heart 
 
 Sends back its thoughts to me, 
 And with that thought I '11 close my eyes, 
 
 And fondly dream of thee. 
 Strong is the heart that 's bound to thee, 
 
 Pure is the love I 've given ; 
 And all the vows I pledged to thee 
 
 A re registered in heaven. 
 
112 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Love's torch was lit with feelings pure, 
 
 And long as life's brief lamp shall burn 
 AVill this fond heart with joy recall 
 
 Days that never may return. 
 Those happy scenes, those joyous hours, 
 
 They linger with me yet, 
 And, like some far-off mournful strain, 
 
 Its tones I '11 ne'er forget. 
 
 DEAR ARE THE SCENES OF MY CHILD- 
 HOOD'S HOME. 
 
 "TvEAR are the scenes of my childhood's home — 
 ■*-* The sunny glade, the flowery dell — 
 They have the blessed power to thrill 
 
 My heart with love's own spell. 
 Fond memory now doth send a glance 
 
 Upon the cherished scenes of home, 
 And to each soft and joyous note 
 
 Is breathed sweet echoes of mine own. 
 Visions of home! borne on Memory's wing 
 
 My spirit's depths can swiftly thrill, 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 113 
 
 While o'er my soul soft music pours, 
 Like heart-chord notes that echo still. 
 
 Yes, mournfully they touch my every chord, 
 Recalling scenes once dearly prized — 
 
 Bringing once more, in blissful dreams, 
 Hopes never again to be realized. 
 
 FADED HOPES. 
 
 T IKE fallen leaves from wasted flowers, 
 -^ Drooping and pale, each hope is dying ; 
 Each gem from the string of former joys 
 
 Passeth like a breeze in its own sad siffhinff 
 Time hath plucked each leaflet bright, 
 
 Flowers of hope so bright and fair, 
 Like the checkered shades of my sad life, 
 
 They are scattered everywhere. 
 
 Those hopes were mirrored like rainbow dyes, 
 All radiant like the hues of morn ; 
 
 Each leaflet stole the glowing tints of heaven, 
 Like soft veiled rose-clouds floating on. 
 
 8 
 
114 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 But now I mourn those Lopes departed, 
 I gaze upon the past with pain ; 
 
 Yet oft is memory thrilled and stirred 
 In living o'er those dreams again. 
 
 Yes, often o'er my soul there comes 
 
 A memory of those vanished dreams ; 
 I bless them for their precious light 
 
 As each in softness gleams. 
 I would that they had never died, 
 
 Those golden dreams of old — 
 Those treasures bright, those jewels fair, 
 
 Hid in my heart's deep fold. 
 
 My heart is oft with sorrow fraught, 
 
 The future brings no light ; 
 With eyes bedimmecl with many a tear, 
 
 I sigh for hopes once bright. 
 O for one pure unwavering beam 
 
 My lonely path to cheer — 
 For one bright star in coming years 
 
 To light my pathway drear. 
 
I AM ALONE. 
 
 [" AM alone— do more you '11 come 
 
 My weary heart to cheer; 
 Life's storms are near, I feel them now- 
 
 Oh ! would that thou wert here. 
 I am alone— grief's clouds now frown 
 
 Across life's youthful sea ; 
 All hope hath fled on wings away, 
 No joy is there for me. 
 
 I am alone— no star of hope 
 
 Shines o'er my lonely way, 
 For threatening waves around me roar, 
 
 Its tides my soul obey. 
 My steps grow heavier clay by day, 
 
 And paler grows my cheek ; 
 Great the load my heart doth wear, 
 
 Its grief I cannot speak. 
 
 115 
 
116 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 None may know the mighty woe 
 
 That rends my tortured soul — 
 How all the joys that once were mine 
 
 Are gone beyond control. 
 Then let my spirit find at last 
 
 That peace by angels given ; 
 Let this aching heart be filled 
 
 With unfading hopes of heaven. 
 
 TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. 
 
 ALAS ! thy little one has fled ! Oh ! the darkened 
 days 
 That came upon thee when Maggie died ! She left 
 
 thee here 
 To tread alone life's weary way, without her smiles 
 Thy heart to cheer. Alas ! the days are dark, 
 The nights are drear, each moment has its pangs 
 No time can heal, and like a shipwrecked bark 
 Thou driftest upon life's sea. How pure and bright 
 
 thy cherub was ! 
 How deep within thy heart of hearts 
 Her image lay ! And oh ! the magic spell, 
 
BUDS PROM MEMORY'S WREATH. Hf 
 
 The sweetly sleeping charm that dwelt in that sweet 
 
 name, 
 My Maggie/ Oh ! none will ever know 
 The priceless bliss of her, thy babe, 
 Thy Eden-tinted bud, thy sweet embryo gem ! 
 Fresh-moulded from the hand of God, 
 Heaven's own counterpart, she came 
 In all her beauty, till thy soul, entranced with 
 
 pleasure, 
 Seemed beyond earth's vale to soar. 
 Sweetly, faintly stealing upon thine car 
 Was its first cry. Oh! how it soothed thy heart's 
 
 oppressive sadness, 
 Breathing music to thy soul, waking every slum- 
 bering feeling, 
 Bearing thy thoughts from earth to heaven ! 
 God sent her in autumnal hours, when fading buds 
 Drooped 'neath chilling winds. Yes, 'mid autumn 
 
 winds 
 Thy little flower awoke to life ; a sweeter bud 
 Our lovely earth ne'er knew. Not yet two summers' 
 Life was hers, yet oh! the hopes that clustered 
 Around thy child! and bright were the garlands 
 woven 
 
118 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 Of sweet summer thoughts like to the flowers 
 
 When by rain-drops kissed. O Maggie ! what joys, 
 
 What diadem, what of earth's brightest gems 
 
 Can ever fill thy vacant place ? 
 
 O cruel Death ! thou hast a rare and radiant one, 
 
 Our dearest treasure, our sweet babe, 
 
 The brightest blossom on life's tree. 
 
 THE OLD HOUSE HAS GONE TO DECAY. 
 
 rPHE old house has gone to decay — 
 -*■ It nestled close by the stream, 
 Where once bright flowers perfumed the air 
 
 When kissed by the sun's fond beam. 
 Those flowers all have drooped and died, 
 
 Reft are they of their bloom ; 
 And echoing, sadly to the dimpled waves 
 
 Are sounds from the homestead's gloom. 
 
 There the tall oaks their branches fling 
 
 Across the cherished ruins there, 
 And the golden sunbeams softly play 
 
 Like jewels fresh and fair. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 119 
 
 Through the bright green foliage comes the sound 
 
 Of the lone dove at eventide, 
 Breathing sad notes from her lonely heart 
 
 For the mate no more at her side. 
 
 Sweet voices are hushed, no more are heard 
 
 Jo} t ous tones and sounds of bliss, 
 For, with those same enamelled flowers 
 
 They faded in their loveliness. 
 Their names I call, they answer not — 
 
 My soul's sad fount must gush alone — 
 For my lone heart hath lost each gem 
 
 That in love's casket shone. 
 
 And she whose bright and happy smile 
 
 Was sweetest, brightest, best — 
 Who cheered me oft in childhood's hour, 
 
 Has faded with the rest. 
 The old house has gone to decay, 
 
 It nestled close by the stream — 
 There once bright flowers perfumed the air 
 
 When kissed by the sun's fond beam. 
 
DOWN A LONELY PATHWAY NEAR THE 
 STREAM. 
 
 TVOWN a lonely pathway near the stream 
 ■^ Dwells a maid in silent grief; 
 Earth hath no joys to make her glad, 
 No balm nor healing leaf. 
 
 Love's phantom smiles were all untrue, 
 Sad disappointment brought its pain ; 
 
 Her once gay heart by grief was chilled, 
 By love's delusive reign. 
 
 No gentle words now soothe her heart, 
 To bid it wake again to peace ; 
 
 For all her brightest dreams have flown — 
 No more will come fresh hopes of bliss. 
 
 Life had ever been to her 
 
 One scene of joj-ous hours, 
 And in her yearning, trusting soul, 
 
 Bloomed love's unfading flowers. 
 
 120 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 121 
 
 Long weary years have slowly fled, 
 Grief hath filled her heart with gloom ; 
 
 And scattered buds from love's fair wreath, 
 And made for her a lonely doom. 
 
 Love's voice is hushed, there comes no sound 
 Of tones that once a gladness shed ; 
 
 No echo comes from her soul's dark cave 
 To tell of jo3's forever fled. 
 
 Yes, years have fled — above that heart 
 Gay birds woo the answering flowers ; 
 
 And the sighing winds, so soft and low, 
 Rustle amid her once-loved bowers. 
 
IN MEMORY OF GEN. ROBERT E. LEE. 
 
 T POUR m} r sadness forth in gentle song 
 
 ■*■ In memory of our noble dead ; 
 
 My soul bows 'neath the sudden stroke — 
 
 Our Lee hath forever fled! 
 Many a heart will for his presence yearn ; 
 
 Enshrouded is our land with gloom ; 
 Yet memory oft will plume her gilded wing 
 
 And weep o'er his hapless doom. 
 
 Death's ruthless hand hath torn from us 
 
 A patriot true and brave ; 
 A noble knight of heart and steel 
 
 Rests in the silent grave. 
 laurel-crowned ! friend of the free — 
 
 Above thee will love's flow'rets wave; 
 'Tis thine alone to claim that love, 
 
 The homage of the brave. 
 122 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 123 
 
 Iii days gone by hopes looked to us 
 
 All glorious as the dawn ; 
 A nation's spirit never dreamed 
 
 Those hopes would soon be gone. 
 Now shadowy thoughts of hopes that were 
 
 Come like a, funeral pall, 
 For time and things have sadly changed, 
 
 Gloom on each heart doth fall. 
 
 Our noble Lee is gone! forever gone! 
 
 In the dark grave he reclines ; 
 While e'er with sad and aching hearts 
 
 Our wreath of sorrow twines. 
 Then softly tread above the place 
 
 Where rests our champion brave, 
 And let us drop for him the tear 
 
 Whose life bright lustre gave. 
 
 Our love shall ever linger round 
 
 Our fallen hero's tomb, 
 And memory's flow'rets o'er each noble deed 
 
 Will ever brightly bloom. 
 Then let us weep ! Our Lee is dead ! 
 
 Weep o'er his noble shrine ; 
 His sun has set; he rests with God; 
 
 By "suffering purified ; by bravery made divine." 
 
I 'M DREAMING OF THE PAST, LOYE. 
 
 T 'M dreaming of the past, love, 
 
 -*- Thy vows again I hear ; 
 
 Joy's bright garlands around me twine, 
 
 I see thy face so dear. 
 I 've treasured every word of thine 
 
 As star-beams to my lonely wa}^ 
 And ever upon this life's dark sea 
 
 Will burn love's quenchless ray. 
 
 E'en memory now with magic art 
 
 Brings back the happy past — 
 The treasured joys forever gone, 
 
 They were too bright to last. 
 This fond heart can ne'er forget 
 
 The dreams of other years, 
 For peace and pure affection hold 
 
 Sweet thoughts 'gainst future fears. 
 
 124 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 125 
 
 Though wayward fate has severed far 
 
 Two hearts as true as Heaven, 
 Thy love for me all grief dispels, 
 
 Thy heart to me is given: 
 Thy soul's best treasures still are mine, 
 
 I prize them with a miser's care — 
 And dreams of thee around me shine, 
 
 Beaming bright with beauty there. 
 
 LINES TO A FRIEND. 
 
 5HHIS a fearful thing when the trusting heart 
 
 J- Is turned to sad despair; 
 When we sigh for jo}^s by fate denied, 
 
 And Hope lies withered there : 
 To feel the inward heart is changed, 
 
 And cold is love and truth — 
 When come dark clouds w r ith awful gloom 
 
 To blacken all our youth. 
 And when there comes no transient gleam 
 
 To cheer our hapless doom — 
 When Faith hath hid her snowy wing, 
 
 And deeper grows the gloom — 
 
126 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 And when we feel the gushing tide 
 Of youth's young dream is o'er, 
 
 Then the sinking soul is all clespai?*, 
 We cling to life no more. 
 
 BELOVED OF MY SOUL. 
 
 "OELOYED of my soul! so loved, so waited for, 
 -*-* When wilt thou come in thy young manhood's 
 
 pride 
 My weary heart to cheer? Oft in my lonely hours 
 My tired soul turns trustingly to thee, 
 While dreams of happiness spent with thee 
 Come o'er me like the perfume of sweet faded 
 
 flowers. 
 Hour after hour there floateth down within my heart 
 Sweet thoughts of thee, and like jewels from some 
 
 radiant crown 
 They gleam all beautiful, bright, and pure. 
 Beloved of my soul ! I see thy face 
 In all my dreams, and with deep intensity I muse 
 Upon the love that flows from thy fond heart for me 
 Like the stars that gem the "dark-browed night," 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 12T 
 
 Or like the murmurs of sea shells when by ocean 
 waves kissed. 
 
 Thy heart is my home that is ever with new beauty 
 rife, 
 
 While visions bright my lonely breast illume ; 
 
 The memory of thy love is ever floating into my 
 soul 
 
 Like mellow sunbeams when they paint some far-off 
 scene 
 
 In all their glorious light, or like the strains 
 
 Of some sweet music; we hear them in every pass- 
 ing breeze. 
 
 Oh ! solemn and slow the weary da}^s pass on, 
 
 Chill and cold the winter winds sweep by, 
 
 While clouds of sorrow drive across my sky of 
 happiness, 
 
 Leaving me watching and lone 
 
 With an o'erburdened heart. 
 

 
 THE BROKEN HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 NCE more we 've met around the hearth, 
 Round our dear and cherished home ; 
 Yet on our brows there rests a grief — 
 
 Our loved one has not come. 
 The twilight shades have gathered fast 
 
 Around the sleeping earth, 
 And home voices are whispering sadly now— 
 
 We miss one tone of mirth. 
 
 Clouded is our sunlit heaven, 
 
 Not a ray is shining round ; 
 Dark and drear is every object 
 
 On this lone and hallowed ground. 
 Yes, 'neath our rooftree gathered 
 
 We sit, a lonety band, 
 For from our dear and cherished home 
 
 We miss one darling hand. 
 128 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 129 
 
 We miss the idol of our home, 
 
 The bright and noble one — 
 He was the darling of our hearts, 
 
 He was our morning sun. 
 He was like the stars that gem 
 
 The radiant brow of night- 
 Like beams from the moon, 'mid heaven, 
 
 Shedding a fond delight. 
 
 Ah ! lonely glide the weary hours, 
 
 We list his coming night and day, 
 And weep in woe the bitter tears 
 
 Caused by his long delay. 
 Like some bleak spot, some winter view, 
 
 Is my o'ershadowed heart ; 
 It feels no warmth, no rosy light, 
 
 While we are thus apart. 
 
MUSINGS. 
 
 riMIE sad, sad winds are sighing, 
 -^ And all is hushed to rest ; 
 All but my heart; that cannot lean 
 
 Upon sleep's quiet breast. 
 Mj r heart in this sad hour, 
 
 Its lonely vigils keeping, 
 Beats and throbs with grief and pain 
 
 For those in death now sleeping. 
 Yet fancy brings them once again 
 
 As they were in years ago ; 
 Their voices, sweet as summer glee, 
 
 Breathe murmurs soft and low. 
 Ah! memory tells me many a tale, 
 
 She comes with magic power. 
 And hope and love all fitly blend 
 
 With childhood's happy hour: 
 
 130 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 131 
 
 Like chords that ever feel the thrill 
 
 That o'er their strings have swept — 
 Like the burden of a broken heart, 
 
 It breathes the strains that long have slept ; 
 Such chords my spirit depths now thrill, 
 
 Rousing within sweet hidden springs, 
 Echoing sad notes from the broken lyre 
 
 Sweet as the rushing of angel wings. 
 
 OH! GIVE ME FLOWERS. 
 
 /\II ! give me flowers bright and fair — 
 ^ Give them in the night of sorrow; 
 They tell of something fresh and pure, 
 " Something hopeful for the morrow." 
 
 Give me flowers with clew-drops glistening, 
 They speak of love and pure devotion ; 
 
 Each young leaflet seems with bright hopes swelling, 
 Ever speaking love's own emotion. 
 
 They are precious jewels gleaming 
 
 Ever in this world of ours ; 
 Then give me, in the night of sorrow, 
 
 Flowers, bright and lovely flowers. 
 
132 BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATH. 
 
 They come, sweet messengers of love, 
 
 All full of radiant light ; 
 Piercing with joy the gloomy hours 
 
 When bowed 'neath sorrow's night. 
 
 Then give me flowers bright and fair — 
 Give them in the night of sorrow ; 
 
 They tell of something fresh and pure, 
 " Something hopeful for the morrow." 
 
 LINES. 
 
 riTHERE is a look within thine eye 
 -*- That answers not to mine ; 
 It chills the love I fain would give 
 For one sweet thought of thine. 
 
 There is a coldness in thy tone, 
 Thy smiles are all withdrawn ; 
 
 Oh ! thou hast had thy triumph hour ; 
 I merit now thy scorn. 
 
BUDS FROM MEMORY'S WREATTT. 133 
 
 I writhe beneath the scorching pain, 
 
 My happy dream is o'er ; 
 My fancied joys forever fled, 
 
 Bright hopes return no more. 
 
 The happy dream hath passed away, 
 
 The lyre of love is broken ; 
 The depths of my proud heart were stirred 
 
 By a word too cruelly spoken. 
 
 Ah ! there was madness in thy tone, 
 It touched my heart's deep chords ; 
 
 You blighted its sweet budding joys 
 By that one cruel word. 
 
 But I forgive thee! yes, forgive thee, 
 
 And bless thee as we part ; 
 'Tis over now — thy chain is broken — 
 
 I '11 tear thee from my heart. 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
MINISTERING SPIRITS. 
 
 BRIGHT angel forms, sweet messengers of love, 
 spirits pure and holy! how I feel their pre- 
 sence blending with my own, pouring sweet bless- 
 ings upon my heart, bidding it awake to hope and 
 gladness. Are they not all ministering spirits? 
 Yes, along the vista of the coming future, when 
 the wasting blight of earthly woe steals over the 
 stricken heart, then these angel ones come like 
 carrier doves our lonely hours to brighten. Loved 
 ones who are taken by the hand of death return 
 again with love undying our weary souls to bless. 
 Ministering spirits! blessed thought, immortal 
 through all coming time. We see above us radiant 
 lights beautiful and fair. With uplifted pinions, 
 and looks of love, they hover near. Their brows are 
 
 137 
 
138 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 still beautifully fair. They have lost none of the 
 halo of that purity that once encircled them ; for 
 they are not of earth, but of heaven. Those angel 
 ones who plumed their pinions to Eden land return 
 once more. From their far-off heavenly homes 
 the}' come, bearing the dew-drops of love upon 
 their golden wings more bright than monarch's 
 sparkling gems. Though love's earthly pinions 
 may be clipped, their lustre dimmed, their beau- 
 teous forms return to dust again, yet their spirit 
 lives, lives on through eternity, and the glory of 
 heaven will cling round them still and " hallow all 
 on whatsoe'er it rests." 
 
 Ministering spirits ! we see them in all our 
 waking .hours ; they never leave us, but, like a 
 beautiful dream they hover o'er us still. The}' 
 form a chain more pure than gold, a chain that 
 reaches from earth's dull shore to God's throne 
 above. They reflect every tint of joy in earth and 
 in heaven, and their birthplace is the bosom of 
 their God. Ministering spirits ! their whispers 
 are soft as a fairy's song — 
 
 " Or like the wind harp's faintest sigh, 
 That scarcely lives ere it doth die." 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 139 
 
 Those ministering spirits follow ns on wings of 
 joy, spreading their brightness round us to keep 
 off evil forever. With what mingled mournfulness 
 and strange rejoicing do we hear those whispers, 
 bringing to the sad heart a sense of a fresh exist- 
 ence. Their angel steps! we hear them as they 
 come, bearing ns gifts from their glorious home on 
 high, placing blossoms in our hearts to bloom, 
 relighting the dim lamp of hope, bidding us look 
 up and rejoice. Then, 
 
 "Lo! our eyes catch the flash of glancing wings, 
 And half seen visions of all glorious things." 
 
 Ministering spirits are given us at our birth, to 
 be our constant companions and guides. They 
 walk with us, they hold sweet converse with us 
 unperceived by men, and fill our dreams with high 
 thoughts and pure imaginings. In the brightness 
 and in the gloom, in joy, in grief, since the gates 
 of Eden closed on guilty man, have there hovered 
 those ministering spirits, giving us glimpses of the 
 glories of their heavenly home— giving us faint 
 echoes of the harpings of their immortal hymns, 
 
140 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 and bidding us look with glad faith to the throne 
 of the Eternal. Though their voices are hushed, 
 and all unheard the sweet tones that once charmed 
 us as a spell, and though to our souls we find no 
 answering thrill, yet those same ministering spirits 
 have ever borne 
 
 "A flowing urn, from whence a balm was slied 
 O'er sorrow's wounds, where'er their footsteps led.' 
 
THE DARKENED HOME. 
 
 NIGHT, solemn and holy! Night, pure and 
 beautiful! Midnight had chimed the hour, 
 and the world lay sleeping as if bound by a spell. 
 The stars were looking down in love from the far 
 off heavens, while the moon sinking behind the 
 distant hills shed a brightness on the enamel turf, 
 and gilded leaf and fountain with a holy radiance. 
 Each blade of grass bent beneath the tears of 
 night, and within the blushing bosom of each flow- 
 eret there yet "lolled the dew-drops." The soft 
 winds played among the sweet orange blossoms, 
 while those same night clews drew from blossoms 
 rare an odor sweet. Beautiful was the scene ! The 
 fitting time for the innocent soul to return to its 
 God. All nature, weary of the turmoil of the day, 
 had sunk to repose. In a handsomely furnished 
 room of the stately mansion sat a young and 
 
 141 
 
142 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 lovely woman. The hand of sorrow had been laid 
 heavily upon her. She was watching by the side 
 of her dead babe. The light within her heart had 
 died out. On the couch lay the little form. Is it 
 not ever thus? The loveliest, the purest are ever 
 the first to leave us. And it is ivell. The laugh- 
 ing eyes were closed ; the long fringed lashes lay 
 lovingly upon the marble cheek, lie had fled, the 
 darling boy, fled to where star-eyed angels dwell 
 be3 r ond the glorious heavens ; afar to that clime 
 where myriads of angels throng around the throne 
 more brilliant than gems of the sunlit Isles. No 
 power of earth could close the pulse of anguish in 
 unthrobbing sleep within that mother's breast. No 
 charm in whispered words could blunt the keen- 
 ness of her grief. Oh ! what an influence did that 
 infant bo3 r shed over that widowed mother's heart, 
 restoring love's broken spell, opening the fresh 
 fountain of his young life to her, laying his pur.e 
 affections as an offering true at her feet. Beautiful 
 boy ! born of the light of heavenly mansions, thou 
 wert divine. The angels called thee early ; thou 
 art gone with earth's fair flowers. The icy fingers 
 of death have stilled the beatings of thy little 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 143 
 
 heart, and on pinions bright thou wert borne to 
 the spirit land. The golden link in life's bright 
 chain was riven, the "silver cord was loosened, 
 the golden bowl broken." Yet still that mother 
 lingered o'er her dead boy, tracing there some sign 
 of life her poor wrung heart had hoped to see. 
 The little hand that had culled for her the opening 
 flower returned not the loving clasp. How often 
 in wakeful dreams will her soul bring back that 
 cherished form, now cold and still. Oft will her 
 sad heart turn to the lovely bud ere death had cast 
 it from out her wreath of love, and had dimmed 
 the lustrous dawn of future years. Bereft of her 
 sweet boy, her poor wrecked heart lies mouldering 
 amid the ruins of despair. She knelt in prayer. 
 Long and earnest was that petition, and its burden 
 was the cry of a suffering heart, "Not my will, 
 O God! but thine." Again she prayed, 
 
 11 That, though her child she might no longer see, 
 Her spirit still could look to heaven and thee." 
 
 Morning broke over the laughing earth ; the 
 mellow, golden light shed its soft rays upon the 
 little sleeper. The soft breeze wafted through the 
 
144 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 open window, lifted the long fair hair that floated 
 over the satin pillow; while encircling his pure 
 brow was a chaplet of snow-white buds still spark- 
 ling with dew-drops, and placed there by that poor 
 mother. That dying smile — it beamed upon her 
 heart like sunlight from heaven ; it told of a re- 
 union beyond the grave. Evening came, and while 
 the sun was sinking to rest the little one was borne 
 to the grave, there to await the coming of that 
 Saviour who said, " Suffer little children to come 
 unto me." The mother returned to her desolate 
 home. The returning without her child. He to 
 whose bosom that cherished one had gone — He 
 alone could tell the anguish of that trial. Years 
 passed by : a darkness on that mother fell. She 
 too was laid upon the bed of death. She dreaded 
 it not. Beside her shone a radiant light myste- 
 riously beautiful, too pure for earth's conception, 
 and there was seen an angel form radiantly crowned. 
 The dying mother recognizes her lost boy. lie 
 comes to bear the purifying fount of love to that 
 fond mother's heart, to free the soul from earth's 
 dull chains, and to plume her pinions to yon glo- 
 rious light. .New strength is given the weak clay j 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 145 
 
 again the pale lips are heard to utter the prayer of 
 faith as in years agone. The angel spirit folds its 
 white wings and bends to listen : — 
 
 " My Father, all thy promises have I kept ; 
 He comforts those who have in sadness wept ; 
 Earth here I no longer see, 
 Yet trustfully my spirit looks to thee." 
 
 Far above, in Heaven's own home, there burst 
 forth angelic strains, and the joyous anthem echoed 
 round the throne of God. The spirit freed was 
 borne upon the rapturous wings of the angel boy 
 to the realms of bliss, no longer to dwell upon 
 earth in the darkened home. 
 
 10 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 1VTIGHT on the Mississippi! How grand ! how 
 -*-* jjlorious ! The fall-orbed moon rode high 
 above on her chariot of clouds, and softly the 
 moonbeams slept with delight upon the mighty 
 waters beneath. Cunningly gleamed the little stars 
 upon our bonny boat as she majestically ploughed 
 the foaming waves. Yes, proudly tossed our gal- 
 lant barque, and musingly I watched the billows on 
 their paths of foam. The winds were calm, and 
 onward we sailed. Now and then the tide mur- 
 mured like despairing souls. Now deeply, softly j 
 
 "Then slowly, darkly, thoughtfully, 
 Lost itself in the mighty sea." 
 
 Here and there a star-beam lay upon the wave, 
 and the dancing waters cradled it to sleep. The 
 tiny shells, lashed by the rushing waters, mur- 
 14G 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 14*7 
 
 inured sadly of their ocean home. There was a 
 charm to my eye when the waves would leap, and 
 there was music in their roar. 
 
 "Away, away on the dashing spray 
 Our barque sped light and free." 
 
 How my bosom bounded with wild delight as I 
 watched the countless stars, like jewels rare, so 
 calm and still! It seemed as if the light grew 
 more dazzling as reflected from the diadem of hea- 
 ven. How mournfully sounded the waters surging 
 everywhere. Yet not alone did I enjoy the scene. 
 The gay and talented "Bell Brittain," with her 
 lively sallies, her cheerful words, and bright smiles, 
 bore me company. Her bright career lightly passes 
 clown the rapid stream of life like some bright 
 fairy barque "bearing no sadder freight than fruits 
 and flowers." There, too, was the gifted Mackay, 
 with his calm, proud mien, who, borne by easy 
 flights up the steeps of fame, has never sunk ex- 
 hausted or discouraged. No jarring thoughts 
 dared intrude upon the harmony of my mind dur- 
 ing my homeward journey. I was not ennuied, 
 for the summit of my desires was reached, my 
 
148 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 warmest hopes, m} r brightest dreams, more than 
 realized. I drank in their words deeply, yet still 
 with deepening thirst. Again, there was Col. Ful- 
 ler, late of the New York Mirror, whose soul was 
 the abode of genius and love, who reflected the 
 lightning of that mighty soul upon all who knew 
 and conversed with him. To me he was a god of 
 royal rule, ocean born, the true incarnation of all 
 that was good and true. Mackay too, was, to my 
 childish imagination, like the " iron casque of a 
 poet reformer," a knight in the list against the age, 
 whose " words clang like mail," whose name is, 
 indeed, graved in all the pomp of fame ; whose 
 bright history records a heart of noblest mould. 
 Was it any wonder I was content to go sailing 
 along the wild rushing waters, to sleep on the rude 
 wave-rocked pillow? Around me seemed to glow 
 the beings of intellect. Hope, too, was near. Oh ! 
 would that my hopes, m} r aspirations, and my poor 
 genius might expand and unfold into luxuriant 
 life, and reach the sacred shrine of poetry; that 
 
 " My name could win an eminence o'er the throng 
 By the rare gift of poetry and song.'' 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 149 
 
 Yes, would that my hopes might become perfected 
 into beautiful realization. I would have that gift 
 burn upon my brow in the regal power and splen- 
 dor of the highest genius, which weighs not heavily 
 upon the brow of Mackay, nor lightly binds it. 
 Such were my thoughts as I sailed along the Mis- 
 sissippi with the eloquent poet, the dashing and 
 brilliant "Belle Brittain," and the witty Fuller. 
 But time waned. After singing one or two songs 
 for my friends, we said good night. I still lingered, 
 looking at the moon's bright beams ; still watched 
 the waters in their godlike power, and with child- 
 ish ecstasy my soul exultingly marked their proud 
 career. But a change had come over the " spirit 
 of my dream ;" my thoughts flew with greater 
 rapidity than the stately vessel, for home and its 
 treasiwes lay a little way before me. Yes, I would 
 soon be with the "loved ones at home," with those 
 who knew and loved me best. One bright star 
 seemed to speak of my home, my oivn, my sunny 
 South. Once more its smiling skies would bend 
 o'er me in all their brilliancy. There the bright 
 flowers would shine through the silver dew, and 
 their thousand odors would around me be thrown. 
 
150 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 Again with footsteps light in gladness straying 
 would I wander o'er hill and dale. With airy 
 flight I 'd wander up and down each rippling rill, 
 or repose on the banks of golden moss and gather 
 pebbles bright and shells of crimson hue. At home 
 would be found love's own dwelling, 
 
 "An Isyphena in every mind." 
 
 A divine joy pervaded my whole being, and radi- 
 ated from the anticipated meeting with those I 
 loved and the friends of early years. St. Louis, 
 with all her gay pleasures, will vanish like a dim 
 dream of beauty ; but the influence of home can 
 never leave me. Again time waned. I sought my 
 berth, and, while 
 
 " Rocked in the cradle of the deep," 
 
 I fell into a sweet slumber. After a night of quiet 
 rest I arose. The morning broke clear and beau- 
 tiful. After greeting my friends a rosy good morn- 
 ing I accompanied them on deck, to greet the 
 light-winged zepl^rs and to watch the pearl shells 
 play, and to listen again to the roar of the old 
 "Mississip." There was still a charm on the waves 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 151 
 
 that whispered of the night before; still there 
 flowed in low liquid numbers the waterfall's song 
 of "joys departed." As the chanting waves slum- 
 bered or dashed along, or as the tones of the mur- 
 muring tide kept time with the "beating of my own 
 heart," I felt entranced. How charmed is the foam 
 of waves on the rolling Mississippi, and the spell of 
 the star-beam or the dazzling sun that whispers of 
 home. But onward, still onward, swept the proud 
 and stately " Philadelphia." The waters were 
 never "weary of well-doing," for loudly they 
 laughed adown the glen, and merrily danced over 
 the rocky steeps. 
 
 Again time waned. The evening sun sparkled 
 along the surface of the river, and the blue smoke 
 from the boat shot far up into the sky. Almost 
 home unconsciously broke from my lips, and my 
 heart leaped with joy. Yet a shadow fell upon my 
 spirit when I thought of parting with my friends. 
 The lone dove had hushed its low moan on the 
 shore; the listening willows leaned over the waters 
 at the approaching darkness. For the last time 
 did the hours wane for me on the " Father of 
 Waters." The night was fast approaching. The 
 
152 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 sun had sunk to his ocean bed, and the sullen 
 murmurs of the now murky waters as the}' heaved 
 and lashed to and fro, all bespoke my near ap- 
 proach to home. At the request of the poet I 
 gave them a " Bumper at Parting," false " Nellie 
 Loraine." But the last words had scarce died 
 away when, jingle, jingle, went the old bell ; the 
 bound was passed, the goal was won. Memphis 
 could be seen towering through the trees just 
 round the bend, and in a few minutes we landed. 
 IVty kind friends saw me safe from the boat to the 
 house of a friend, where I was to remain until 
 time for the cars to leave for my beautiful home, 
 the lovely " Spring City." With a grateful heart 
 for their kindness to me, I said good-bye, or, as 
 Burns says, "A heart-warm, fond good-bye." That 
 meeting, that farewell, had in it a memory that 
 will ever gladden my heart in coming 3'ears, rousing 
 within my soul sweet hidden notes of life's gemmed 
 keystone, whose softest music, whose fairest freight 
 is love and memory. 
 
DO THEY MISS ME AT HOME? 
 
 X^ES, we miss thee. Memory imparts a hallo w- 
 -*- ing influence to every haunt of our loved 
 one. We have treasured every feature and every 
 tone of our absent idol. But, alas ! our home cir- 
 cle is broken. The magic tie of affection is loos- 
 ened, and our bright visions are scattered. All is 
 now dark and cheerless, where once was joy and 
 sunshine. A gloom like night surrounds the hearts 
 that are dearest to thee, and naught but thy dear 
 presence can again build our throne of happiness, 
 so ruthlessly dashed to the ground. Oh! long 
 have we looked for thy familiar greeting, long 
 have yearned to clasp thee to our hearts again, 
 and bid thee rest in peace. Daily and nightly do 
 prayers ascend from our saddened hearts for thy 
 returning. But, alas ! a cruel destiny still detains 
 thee, and thou art still absent, still away from 
 those who love and mourn thee. And it is a bitter 
 
 153 
 
154 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 thought to hear that the hand of fate has with one 
 fell stroke severed the clearest ties that bind the 
 human heart to its dearest kindred, unheedful, 
 unmindful that its relentless touch is followed by 
 bitter wailings and heart-crushing woe. 
 
 "Do they miss me at home?" Ah! well I know 
 thj' lips murmur these words, and well I know thy 
 spirit sends forth an ardent, earnest craving for 
 home, thy haven of rest, and our response is — 
 
 " Yes, we miss thee at home ; yes, we miss thee, 
 Since the hour we hade thee adieu." 
 
 It is a sad separation, but all has not left us, for 
 we have blessed memories and sweet relics of thee. 
 They sleep within our bosoms. They remain at 
 our firesides. This separation, though cruel and 
 afflicting, has not the power to sever our hearts, 
 linked in bonds tender but indissoluble, or blast 
 with adversity the budding flowers that bloomed 
 luxuriantly under the rays of prosperity's sun. 
 No, there is no severing of hearts such as ours. 
 An effort to part them links them but the closer 
 together. 
 
 "Do they miss me at home?" Look upon our 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 155 
 
 brows, overshadowed by the dark mantle of sor- 
 row ; look into our sad and tearful eyes, and there 
 read thy answer. Could thine eye but search the 
 most sacred chambers of our hearts, and there see 
 how closely thou art entwined around our every 
 chord of affection, then would st thou say, " Yes, I 
 am missed." The chain of love has lost a link 
 without thee, and hushed are the wonted tones of 
 joy and gladness. The light upon our hearthstone 
 is forever quenched until thy coming shall dispel 
 its gloom and illume its darkness. The lone seat 
 is still unclaimed. We listen for thy footsteps ; at 
 every echo of returning tread we pause and gaze, 
 but, alas! the loved one cometh not. Oh! how 
 patiently do we list for thy coming ! And when 
 twilight covers the hues of shade and light, and 
 the moon's pale and gentle ray beams mildly down, 
 and the world is wrapped in dreamy slumber, then 
 we bow our heads in untold anguish and murmur, 
 "We miss thee; oh, we miss thee!" Thy voice 
 still lingers melodiously in our ear, like the echo 
 -of a sad and mournful cadence. The thoughts of 
 thee, dear one, are the brightest spots in the mem- 
 ory of the past. They are like some old and 
 
156 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 familiar music, some cherished strain, in which not 
 a discord mingles "a thought of tranquillity, a 
 memory of rest." Yes, we miss thee, my brother ! 
 Oh ! how many thrilling emotions does that pre- 
 cious word strike in the chords of my heart. 
 Memories of other days rush upon me, bringing 
 to mind the sunny hours of childhood, when upon 
 the guileless brow of youth, in life's unclouded 
 days, beamed the light of love and peace. Then 
 the bright, joyous sun shone ever cloudless, and 
 hand in hand we roamed through the flowery land 
 of childhood, unmindful, unheedful of the future. 
 And sorrows, if we had them, were as transient as 
 the rainbow's hues, and fleeting as the dewy breath 
 of morn. But whither do my thoughts lead me ! 
 The wave of the past can never reflow, and the 
 sunny hours can never return. No, 
 
 It liatli fled, our sunny childhood ; 
 
 Ah ! it was too bright to last ; 
 And I often weep with sorrow 
 
 That it hath forever past. 
 
 " Do the}' miss me at home?" The lute stands 
 all silent and untouched, which so often sweetly vi- 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 157 
 
 b rated beneath thy fingers; its strings lie hushed, 
 its notes no longer swell and float with harmonious 
 sweetness upon the air; and if by chance it is 
 awakened from its mournful and dreamy slumber, 
 it sadly whispers, " I miss thee." But the home 
 which is now clothed in sorrow's dark apparel will 
 ere long be clad in Hope's bright vesture, and 
 happiness will again beam from our now weeping 
 eyes, and our hearts will again beat joyous and 
 free. Yes, the clouds which have cast their sha- 
 dows on the brightness of our home will soon be 
 dispelled, and Hope, pointing with rosy finger to 
 the future, whispers of joys to come. 
 
 " Do the}^ miss me at home?" When the hour 
 of retiring comes and we give the parting kiss, 
 tears bedew our eyes, for we think of the absent 
 son, the absent brother, and gently waft him a 
 " whispered good night." Though the wreath of 
 love is bereft of its brightest and freshest leaf, j^et 
 around the buds the same soft perfume lingers. 
 There is not a spot or corner in each of our hearts 
 which your love has not graced, your friendship 
 adorned, and your affection gladdened ; and each 
 
158 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 leaf of our scattered wreath quivers at each thought 
 of thee. 
 
 And when, in louely hours, thy lips murmur, 
 " Do they miss me at home?" think, oh ! think thou 
 nearest the response from thy loved ones, "We 
 miss thee — all miss thee at home." 
 
THE DEBUTANT. 
 
 HAVE just closed the pages of beautiful " Co-» 
 -*- rinne," and as I muse on what I have read a 
 feeling of sadness falls upon my heart, teaching 
 me the emptiness of worldly pleasures, of earthly 
 hopes, and fading honors. The reading of that 
 witching story has made me feel lone and desolate, 
 — desolate as a forsaken hearth. I ask myself the 
 question, What will be the end of gay worldlings, 
 of the young debutant who steps forth into the 
 gay world, to drink at the fount of pleasure and 
 partake of every amusement that happens to fall 
 within her reach ? Is the world and its pleasures 
 a foundation upon which the heart may build with 
 no fear of " receding sand?" Is it a field where 
 the flowers of happiness are of an immortal bloom 
 and fragrance ? Alas ! I fear not. The young 
 debutant thinks it is charming, a most exquisite 
 thing, to make her "debut," to mingle in the gay 
 
 159 
 
160 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 world, to be a devout devotee at the shrine of 
 pleasure, to enjoy the world's brilliant wit and fas- 
 cinating dissipation. But ah! there is in the end 
 a void which the world can never again fill, a void 
 left by the exciting scenes that bedeck the path 
 which so many choose, and which many fain would 
 forsake but for a figure called Queen of Pleasure, 
 who urges them on, o??, } T et which to inexperienced 
 youth seems like the sweet promises of heavenly 
 joy! This figure tells of beautiful and social scenes 
 prepared in lovely places, through which she would 
 lead them. She points gaily to the laughing crowd 
 of which she is queen ! Beautiful she is, indeed ; 
 yet oh ! so false and black of heart. Great was 
 the love and grief that bowed the beautiful " Co- 
 rinne" and subdued her soul, throwing around her 
 heart gloom and sorrow, and taking from it all its 
 sunny inspirations. The world to her was once a 
 "bright consuming fire," where rested her dreams, 
 her bright hopes, and her love. But soon she sick- 
 ened o'er the sacrifice, and often did she yearn 
 over the lost treasures of other years, worn in 
 heart, turning to j^outh and innocent joys; turning 
 from the mocking world ; laying her torn heart in 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 161 
 
 the dust, there to die, having had it thrown back 
 bleeding at her feet. Thus it will be with the 
 young who bind themselves with the galling chains 
 of the world's pleasures. Yes, with veiled faces, 
 the bright, the beautiful, even the innocent follow 
 this peerless creature, in hopes of having each 
 bright dream realized. Alas ! they leave their 
 homes of joy to walk evermore onward, onward, 
 through unknown snares, and by the borders of 
 dreadful depths. Will these glittering scenes be- 
 come real ? Will they taste all the joy they fancied 
 could be drunk at the fount of pleasure, and will 
 the promises of the siren who lured the young 
 "debutant" on be fulfilled? Will each heart be 
 satisfied with the friendship, the feet with the flow- 
 ers of that fair seeming place which the world calls 
 the Eden of unfading pleasures ? A warning voice, 
 my good Genii, whispers, It may not be. In that 
 field are there not sej-pents lurking beneath the 
 grass, hidden beneath the flowery beds? Yes, all, 
 all is deception. There the young "debutant," 
 and all who follow the pleasures of the world, bind 
 around them chains which might seem to be of 
 fairest flowers, but would yet prove to be of iron , 
 11 
 
162 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 eating deep wounds into the soul. A "change 
 will come o'er the spirit of their dreams." They 
 will mourn for the innocent sports in the lovely 
 garden of happiness, fragrant with the flowers of 
 childhood. The gay phantom which is ever at 
 their side will mock at the wearied soul and laugh 
 to scorn the fears which rankle in the breast. 
 Ambition, wealth, and honor may build their 
 throne ; laurels may wreathe the brow, and fame 
 may sing aloud their names, and fortune may gild 
 their very footsteps ; yet amid the world's false 
 and fading pleasures one's sunlight is clouded, the 
 flower of love is scentless, the white-plumed angel 
 hovers amid the desolation of blighted happiness, 
 finding no rest for her stainless wing. Alas ! the 
 "first withering of the young heart." Who can 
 fathom the depth of its woe? Where shall it turn 
 for consolation? Where is a voice to bid it hope? 
 Shall the heart still be a slave to the world ? shall 
 it still seek sympathy from the fount which has 
 already turned it to wormwood ? Shall that same 
 bleeding heart, with the arrow of sin still rankling 
 in the wound, seek consolation from the hoard of 
 words stored up for such agonized moments, and 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 163 
 
 doled out by the worldly ones called friends ? 
 Then can it be truly said — 
 
 "Thou hast grown old in the world's ways, and known 
 How its bright tides can on to darkness flow ! 
 Thine eye is dim ; thy voice hath lost its tone ; 
 Thy step o'er childhood's paths is sad and slow." 
 
 Again : — 
 
 "Thou hast come home to seek a rest and peace, 
 
 To nestle, wearied, in thy bower again ; 
 Thou hast come home to ask a short release 
 
 From the world's anguish and its galling chain. 
 Alas ! in vain ; that stern and iron spell 
 
 From thy dim dreams may never more depart ! 
 With peace thy wild, sad spirit may not dwell, 
 
 And fold her dove-like pinions on thy heart." 
 
 Then let not that enduring affection which grap- 
 ples heart to heart with " hooks of steel" bind the 
 heart of the "debutant" to the world so as to wean 
 her from the social band of her childhood's home, 
 where her purity, her loveliness is entwined about 
 the heartstrings of loved ones, where she is the 
 link, the golden chain of that band, the one pearl 
 
164 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 from the string of home happiness, the one leaf 
 from the roof-tree, the one flower from the parterre. 
 Let home and its pleasures be the starry nucleus 
 around which will cluster all the poetry of our 
 youth, and the best and purest emotions of our 
 nature. Let not the pillars of home associations 
 be broken and ruined; let not the world be the 
 swift sirocco to blast the beauty of social happi- 
 ness. May our debut in life be such as will cause 
 no bitter tears, no vain and fruitless regrets in 
 coming years ! May sweet fountains spring up in 
 our paths as each successive year rolls by, and 
 may bright garlands of peace sit like diadems on 
 our aged brows ; and may the characters traced 
 upon the tablets of our hearts be those of a sinless 
 memory; and may we at last be rewarded by a 
 crown of richer htte and fragrance than ever graced 
 a Tasso's brow. 
 
REVERIES. 
 
 rpiIE little clock upon the mantel has tolled the 
 -*~ hour of midnight ; silence hangs heavily over 
 the sleeping earth. As I sit musing it seems as if 
 all of life's joys, its sorrows, its hopes and its fears 
 are slumbering amid the ruins of the past. There 
 arise the scattered monuments of childhood follies, 
 looming high through the dark shadows of bygone 
 days. How vividly do the visions of the past, 
 with all their hallowed associations, rise up before 
 me, and my thoughts travel back with rapid flight 
 and roam once more amid the happy scenes of 
 other years, when life was but a dream of holy 
 bliss; when hope wreathed with glad smiles my 
 youthful brow ; when my heart was like the sum- 
 mer lake. Oh ! visions of happiness, how fondly 
 will ye be remembered! How like a dream of 
 some dim, far-off land of beauty are the memories 
 Yet there are regrets shadowed 
 165 
 
 of "Ions: ago. 
 
166 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 from the wings of memory as she flits over the 
 past. On earth these can never be effaced; and 
 as they rise up before me my cries of agony mount 
 up to heaven, echoing through the mazes of eter- 
 nity. Oh! that I could view once more the pic- 
 tures of youth and happiness ! could gaze once 
 more upon scenes so fair, tinged with the light of 
 sweet and holy remembrance. Let me gaze once 
 more upon the rainbow, the "broken covenant" of 
 my life, which hath faded away forever! Time 
 hath flown on leaden wings, and the magic circle 
 of love is diminished, and our household gods are 
 scattered; tender ties are broken, and the "dove 
 of peace," who started upon her weary pilgrimage, 
 will return no more! Those scenes, with their 
 magic spell, dwell with me yet, though so many 
 weaiy years have passed. But the years are fall- 
 ing from my brow, and when I look far down the 
 vale of other years and trace the path through 
 which my steps have come, I bow my grief-stricken 
 head and murmur " Thy will be done." I can only 
 dream of the hopes that threaded the woof of life's 
 brightest festival. Those hopes come as a haunt- 
 ing dream to the traveller in the waste of the lone 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 16T 
 
 and gushing waters which may never again cool 
 his parched lips. They come as a "mournful and 
 half-forgotten strain," and as whisperings on the 
 lyre chords their memory sweeps my soul. Oh ! 
 would that I could wreathe from the flowers of 
 past joys a chaplet of bright hopes for future hap- 
 piness. But, alas! 
 
 "A weary, wandering soul am I, 
 
 O'erburthened with an earthly weight ; 
 A palmer through the world and sky, 
 Seeking the celestial gate." 
 
 A dark pall loosens its dreary folds, circling me 
 round with its Egyptian darkness, and tracing 
 upon my heart with barbed arrows dark and fear- 
 ful pictures, while visions grim and shadowy gather 
 in the halls of memory. What power on earth 
 can soothe this heart and free it of its burthen, or 
 take from it its bitterness? Where is the bright 
 guardian, once radiant with heavenly smiles, bear- 
 ing in its hand a chalice from which it poured 
 sweet fragrance upon my heart ? Alas ! grief came, 
 and those once bright pinions flagged, and upon 
 the title-page of my heart's history was written 
 
168 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 Fatality. The path marked out for Hie is one of 
 thorns, yet I will walk that path boldly, striving to 
 endure patiently, heroically, to the end, feeling a 
 calm resignation to the will of God. Yet as years 
 pass by, carrying us all towards the ocean of eter- 
 nity, my heart will still cling to the brightest part 
 of that " long ago." Upon that memory will ever 
 remain, undarkened by shadows, a hallowed spot, 
 round which my heart will delight to linger. 
 Whisperings within me shall be of 
 
 " Something that finds not its answer here, 
 A chain to be clasped in another sphere." 
 
 My eyes grow dim and heavy with their " weight 
 of unwept tears ;" I am drinking of sorrow's cup ; 
 and while the murky tide grows darker I quaff it 
 up with lips pale with the agony they cannot speak. 
 Marble pale is the brow whereon is enthroned the 
 spirit's agony. My heart struggles to bid those 
 ice bonds melt that have gathered about its strings, 
 feeling that to unseal the " fount of tears" would 
 cool the burning brain. But time wanes. One by 
 one the little stars have died out, leaving me lone 
 and watching, while from my spirit's dark cave 
 there comes no light to break its seals. 
 
REVERIES CONTINUED. 
 
 HOW beautiful is the night, with its myriad 
 stars rising in beauty over the world, while 
 the rnoon kisses the ocean's cheek with kisses purer 
 than gems from Afric's mine. The distant hills 
 all reflect back the smiles of the queen of night, 
 while the soft wind, whispering softly through the 
 green foliage, wakes the blue waters from their 
 gentle sleep. The scene is so void of strife, so 
 stirless, that e'en the peerless nightingale ceases 
 his matchless warbling to take in the beauty of the 
 night. At such an hour my spirit seeks to hold 
 silent communion with thee, my brother, thou who 
 oft hath sta}-ed my soul through many a mournful 
 hour; whose influence could break through the 
 dense cloud of my wayward heart, to free it from 
 life's changing dreams. Time could not so quickly 
 obliterate thy cherished face from memory's glass, 
 
 169 
 
HO SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 nor cause coldness of heart to spring up, leaving 
 the ashes of forgetfulness. No ; within my bosom 
 the fair pearls of affection lie, sending forth even 
 now its whisperings to thee, lending the golden 
 chariot of thought to each heart-throb, while my 
 spirit to thee a passage finds. The spirit's con- 
 verse, unperceived by mortal eye, will last, giving 
 to us the hue of love though "speaking in silence's 
 voice." 
 
 Even now memory tells of the dreamy past, of 
 the summer glow, the sunlight of early years, and, 
 clad in hues of splendor, comes back the shadowy 
 forms of those I loved. Time and distance are 
 annihilated ; shadows pass away ; and I am borne 
 back to the time when we two were as one. Thou 
 art with me now. Thy face again I see. Thou art 
 whispering words of peace to my troubled soul. 
 Ah ! over many of earth's vain follies, its loves, 
 its hates, its wild ambitions, did thy pure love a 
 watchful vigil keep. Alas ! how prone was I to 
 remain among the bowers of youthful follies, where 
 many a heart has watched its own slow wasting 
 till every hope vanished like a star. Thy voice 
 always spoke sweet words of love, telling of }o\q 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 171 
 
 which seemed to us of brightest worth, that yet 
 might in "dust all blighted lie;" that dreams, 
 which made the fragrance of the soul, might rob 
 life of its beaut}' ; that fate's thickening mystery 
 might be revealed, and we would see each hope 
 wither ere it had burst to bloom. That fate has 
 been revealed, and I have felt the shadow and the 
 thorn. Ah ! thou wert to me, in our early da}' s, a 
 guiding star, and I still turn to thee, all grateful 
 for the good thou hast planted in my heart ; for 
 the gentle smiles and words of love that have ever 
 been as daydreams to my o'ershadowed soul. A 
 brother's power ! Oh ! priceless gem ! Six long, 
 weary years have passed since last we met. Six 
 years ! " Small item in the great account of eter- 
 nity, yet to some a lifetime of despair." Ah ! 
 lonely heart; sorrowing soul ; whether tears, tears 
 of blood, still longer fall upon thy soil ; whether 
 grief shall still suck the life dew, and the trial be- 
 come still severer; lonely heart, sorrowing soul, 
 blessed are you still. It may be that I shall live 
 to see that which has been sown in bitterness bear- 
 ing the sheaves of a noble harvest. 
 
 Do you ever think of the garden of childhood ? 
 
172 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 that garden so beautifully fair. There we knew no 
 clouds. If transient shadows came they were only 
 fleeting sorrows of childish hearts, which left the 
 tear upon the smiling cheek. And the friends of 
 our youth ! Some are still living ; some severed 
 by distance ; some, alas ! by death. Yes, some 
 (those we loved best) have been carried over the 
 boundless tide of eternity ; their lips, that ever 
 spake but to cheer, are sealed — marble sealed — 
 while to them are yielded visions of a land divine. 
 We are still of earth, wearing coils around us, 
 binding us closer, tighter still to its vanities and 
 its empty show. 
 
 But the joyous and beautiful creations of our 
 childhood shall not be forgotten amid the sorrows 
 of this life. No, let us contemplate them hourly ; 
 plant fresh flowers of love and affection beside 
 them, that they may in old age bear refreshing 
 fruit, all carefully embalmed as if in amber. 
 
 yem* 
 
AMONG THE DEAD. 
 
 npiIE sunset beamed above the tall maples and 
 -*- bathed in beauty the earth and sky in a per- 
 fect flood of glory. I turned my steps towards 
 the home of the dead. As I entered the massive 
 gate a feeling of awe stole over me, and I thought, 
 
 "Such the destiny of all on earth ; 
 So flourishes and fades majestic man." 
 
 From nature's choir there seemed to ascend the 
 low, sad requiem, "I'm passing away." I felt 
 more forcibly the truth that Death's sentence is 
 decreed upon all things terrestrial. The lovely 
 flowers bloom but to die ; the lofty trees become 
 aged and fall to the ground, breathing heavy sighs 
 of departure. As I gazed upon the monuments 
 before me, my imagination winged its flight to ages 
 past, and reflected upon the time of power and 
 
 m 
 
174 SC ATT ERED LEAVES. 
 
 magnificence, and thoughts of melancholy arose 
 as I felt they could never again be realized. And 
 where now are those of the mighty dead — those 
 whose names once glowed upon the lips of beauty; 
 whose high and daring spirits might have held the 
 world in mastery ; those who had overthrown the 
 power of nations, and who had the power to stamp 
 a whole long life with their own coloring. I 
 thought, where now are they? Gone, all gone. 
 They are as if they had never been : — 
 
 " The paths of glory lead but to the grave." 
 
 The dead ! Some in gloom, sorrow, and hopeless- 
 ness went unto the silence of the tomb, whose 
 strength was wasted in illusions lost, whose hopes 
 were phantoms ever; whose youth was girt with 
 glory, honor, hopes, and J0}^s, but which never 
 were realized ; whose " cup foamed with ruby 
 wine," and yet held bitter dregs. Man is but dust, 
 and to dust he returns. All his glory, his power, 
 and his, greatness are but " living corruption." 
 They glitter but for awhile, then sink forever in 
 the eternal night of death. Alexander, Napoleon, 
 Shakspeare, towering Milton, law-giving Alfred, 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. 175 
 
 learned Newton, and others of the mighty dead, 
 who were but bubbles upon the stream, they too 
 have returned to the earth from which they sprang. 
 Here and there could be seen graves humbly 
 decorated by the hands of love with simple flow- 
 ers, fit emblems of the departed. Those pure offer- 
 ings remind the living that there is a spring-time 
 even in the grave. Ah ! the heart is a paradise of 
 shadows ; and we dream on, feeling that the best 
 of life is a dream. The grave ! 'Tis a place of rest ; 
 a place where we can bury crushed hopes and 
 withered J03^s ; a place where earthly sorrow is for- 
 gotten, and peace and quiet reign for evermore. 
 As I passed from grave to grave a feeling of sad- 
 ness seemed to lull my senses, and upon every 
 passing breeze was wafted " I 'm passing awa}<." 
 Upon every leaf, upon every bud w T e see it written. 
 In every note of the warbling bird we hear " I 'in 
 passing away." Alas! we see it upon earth's frail 
 beings, indelibly written there by the hand of God. 
 These frail beings' homes are in the flesh, and with 
 the flesh they will pass awa} r . The beauties of na- 
 ture ; this glorious creation, with its myriad of 
 charms, is rapidly crumbling to dust, surely pass- 
 
176 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 ing away. Though each and ever}" object bears 
 the stamp of divinity, yet that stamp can be erased 
 and all sink into nothingness again. We may cull 
 the fairest flower, gather the richest treasures from 
 earth's mines, inhale the sweetest odor-laden air, 
 gaze upon the most brilliant hues of day, upon the 
 dew-drop gems which deck the brow of night, yet 
 we sigh to feel they are passing away. Earth is 
 beautiful ! The roses that wreathed the bower of 
 Eve with their dewy freshness ; the babbling 
 brooks ; the melody of the birds, made that gar- 
 den a fairy scene, and all was gorgeous. But sin 
 came, and they, with all their joy, with all things 
 lovely, passed away in dai'kness and forever. But 
 twilight was fast deepening into the darker shades 
 of night, and the tall shadows of the maples, check- 
 ering with strange mosaic the lonely pathway of 
 the graveyard, told me that night was coming on. 
 The stars were just beginning to peep from hea- 
 ven's high vault as I turned my steps homeward. 
 Oh! that each one would in this life plant flowers 
 within the heart, though they would bloom but 
 briefly and pass away, yet send forth perfume even 
 in decay. 
 
INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 npiIERE is ever a dark shadow walking by the 
 ■^ Inebriate's side, silent and inscrutable. The 
 death mark has been drawn between him and hap- 
 piness—a deep gulf, with a grave at the bottom, 
 must be passed before he can again be the true 
 and noble one of society. In looking back upon 
 his past life, before he knew the stinging touch oi' 
 the serpent's bite, the Inebriate marks the great 
 contrast. His past life! What a blissful, soul- 
 fraught dream ! Bright flowers of his manhood, 
 that cast their breath on each fairy blossom. In 
 his present condition he tries to wipe the mist 
 from his eyes, believing he sees indistinctly; yet 
 he feels that he is changed — that he is not the 
 creature of the once happy past, but a poor beast 
 of the woe-worn present. Oh ! what listening spirit 
 what winged thing hovering near, has stolen away 
 12 m 
 
178 Scattered leaves. 
 
 his once noble manhood, his purest an ^ best 
 feelings, his every thought of all that was pure 
 and innocent? 'Tis the black-winged spirit of In- 
 temperance, misery's pale-eyed offspring and its 
 heir. r Tis a worm that "outvenoms all the worms 
 of the Nile." Over the "wine drinker" even bright 
 angel forms, sweet carrier doves, those messengers 
 of love and joy, bend from the fair precincts of the 
 holy dominions to weep. Sorrow and fear, them- 
 selves the shade of death, cling around the path 
 of those who indulge in spirits, and around the 
 hearts of those who, in spite of their lost man- 
 hood, love them. Still, Intemperance is a foe, a 
 relentless foe. His footstep breaks upon the happy 
 home circle, snapping the frail snow-wreath of hap- 
 piness, clouding the sunlit mind, the soul, generous 
 and brave. The iron tooth of despair strikes deeper 
 ira the poisoned soul, yet he still clings with palsied 
 grasp to his load of misery ; to the worm that bites 
 but to destroy. Each hour, each day, and each 
 year adds but to his misery. Like arctic moun- 
 tains, on whose hoary tops each winter adds its 
 growing weight of snow, so the Inebriate's life 
 numbers seasons by increasing woes ; and day hy 
 
SCATTERED LEAVES. l^y 
 
 day a heavier burden does he bear. Alas! Intern- 
 peranco's sun never wavers, never wanes or decays. 
 Look abroad ! Wherever we see those who « taste 
 just a little," we see the signet mark of Intemper- 
 ance ; we see but death and shame upon every fea- 
 ture, and every step reverberates over the grave of 
 ruined hopes, broken hearts, and blighted prospects. 
 Oh! that every wine drinker might be drawn away 
 from gloom and guilt to live that better life that 
 knows no death. Intemperance! It rides on, 
 mighty, firm, and black winged. Lo ! a wreck 
 rolls heavily before it. The dark waves of despair 
 roll on, on to the deep, dark caves which can 
 never be fathomed. To the Intemperate life is 
 but a horrid dream, some phantom fiend beckoning 
 with grisly hand the frightened soul to thoughts 
 of madness. They struggle in sick despair, & and 
 at last sink into the realm of nothingness, and— 
 
 1 'Just as the lightning's flash, without its thunder, 
 Blasts what it looks on with its venomous eyes." 
 
 But ah ! that dreadful lightning flash, that fills 
 the soul with blackest woe, reveals the fatal break- 
 ers nigh. The Inebriate's life is a mighty grave, 
 
180 SCATTERED LEAVES. 
 
 wherein is daily buried happy dreams, glorious 
 aspirations, and brilliant ephemerons. Alas ! those 
 noble aspirations must pass away without even an 
 epitaph, because crushed in their vigor by Intem- 
 perance. Then pause, } r e wine drinkers, ere 3^011, 
 who were " placed a little lower than the angers," 
 become an empty cenotaph — a stranger's grave — 
 mouldering and mingling with } T our mother earth, 
 unheeded and unknown. 
 

 S3 
 
 ■ 
 
 i