MEMORY.

COME, Memory, weave thy spells around.
My spirit lone and sad;

Come, bring me back the vanished days,
When my young heart was glad.
She comes, obedient to my call,
She stands beside me now,
A shaded joy, a softened grief
On her fair, thoughtful brow.

Shadows of joys and sorrows past
Flit o'er that changeful face;

O'er each is thrown, by the hand of Time,
A new and softening grace;

From her deep eyes there beams a look

Nor wholly gay nor sad;

In robes half bright, half mournful,

Is her shadowy beauty clad.

And now she casts a misty veil
Over each passing scene,-

The Present flies, and nought remains

But the thought of what has been;

For lo, in swift array they come,

The scenes of bygone hours,

When life was like a summer dream
Of ever-blooming flowers.

The old familiar faces come,

And smile on me once more,
Smile as they used in those old days,
The happy days of yore:

I see again dear well-known forms,
Sweet tones fall on mine ear,

I clasp a hand I have not clasped
For many a weary year.—

Now steals a shadow o'er the scene:

A long-forgotten pain,

But softened by Time's gentle hand,

Comes back to me again.

And now the cloud that passed so dark
Over my life's young dream,

Seems but a shadowy morning mist,

Tinged with the sunlight's gleam.

And my heart whispers, "E'en those days Were not all bright and gay;

Hope on, for as those clouds have passed, These, too, shall fade away.”

Oh Memory, sweet Memory,

Thy comfort who can tell,

When, round the sad and lonely heart,
Thou weav'st thy magic spell!

O'er each dark cloud, tinged by thy glance,
A softened radiance plays;

A light shines on my onward path,——
A gleam from the bygone days.
And I joy to think, whate'er betide,
Sweet Memory, thou art mine;
Nor storm nor tempest e'er can drive
Thee from my spirit's shrine.

THE CHILD OF GENIUS.

A LITTLE child slept in his cradle bed

One summer night, while, through the clustering vines
Around the open lattice, softly stole

The silvery moonbeams, decking his young brow
With pale ethereal light, and gleaming bright
Upon his golden hair. The night-breeze soft
Stole whispering in upon the summer air,
And lightly played amid the boy's bright curls,
And stirred the snowy hangings of his cot
With gentle rustle. Still the child slept on,
Nor whispering breath of night nor moonbeams' kiss
Unsealed the dark-fringed lids, that softly drooped
Upon the baby cheek, nor could recall

His wandering spirit from the realm of dreams

And visions bright,—who knows?—perchance of Heaven :
For sure these little ones must dream of Heaven,
Since of this world they have no consciousness
That could return upon their sleeping sense
And make them dream of Earth; coming, so late,
Fresh from the Heavenly bowers, they still must be
Imaged upon their souls.—