O, ideal of my boyhood's time! The faith in which my father stood, Even when the sons of Lust and Crime Had stain'd thy peaceful courts with blood! Still to those courts my footsteps turn; The generous feeling, pure and warm, Beneath thy broad, impartial eye, How fade the lines of caste and birth! Still to a stricken brother true, By misery unrepell'd, unawed By pomp or power, thou seest a MAN In prince or peasant-slave or lordPale priest, or swarthy artisan. Through all disguise, form, place or name, On man, as man, retaining yet, The immortal gift of God to him. And there is reverence in thy look; For that frail form which mortals wear The Spirit of the Holiest took, And veil'd His perfect brightness there. Not from the cold and shallow fount Thrill'd, warm'd, by turns, the listener's heart, In holy words which cannot die, In thoughts which angels lean'd to know, That voice's echo hath not died! Thy name and watchword o'er this land Not to these altars of a day, At Party's call, my gift I bring; But on thy olden shrine I lay The voiceless utterance of his will His pledge to Freedom and to Truth, That manhood's heart remembers still The homage of its generous youth. MEMORIES. A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl Save thoughtful brow, and ripening charms, As Nature wears the smile of Spring When sinking into Summer's arms. A mind rejoicing in the light Which melted through its graceful bower, Leaf after leaf serenely bright, And stainless in its holy white, A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, How thrills once more the lengthening chain I feel its glow upon my cheek, Its fulness of the heart is mine As when I lean'd to hear thee speak, I hear again thy low replies, I feel thy arm within my own, With soft brown tresses overblown. Ere. this thy quiet eye hath smiled My picture of thy youth to see, And folly's self seemed wise in thee, Years have pass'd on, and left their trace Of woman's pensive beauty brought, The school-boy's name has widely flown; Thine, in the green and quiet ways Of unobtrusive goodness known. And wider yet in thought and deed Yet hath thy spirit left on me An impress Time has worn not out, And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see Lingering even yet thy way about; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers. Thus, while at times before our eye The clouds about the present part, And, smiling through them, round us lie Soft hues of memory's morning skyThe Indian summer of the heart, In secret sympathies of mind, In founts of feeling which retain Their pure fresh flow, we yet may find Our early dreams not wholly vain! THE END. |