MEMORY’S CONSOLATION.

———

BY W. W. HARNEY.

———

When the beauteous rose of morning

Wears her diadem of dew,

And the foot-print of the zephyr

Rests upon the waters blue;

When the moon is softly waning

’Neath the morrow’s ruddy light,

And the cool breath of the morning

Fans the jeweled brow of night;

When the maiden morning blushes,

As it wakens from repose,

And the jealous zephyr brushes

Off the dew kiss from the rose,

Then I watch the starbeams fading,

As the light comes up the sky,

Until with the morn they whisper

That the loved one still is nigh.

When the god of day is shining

As it rides a car of light,

When the glory of the mid-day

Wears a crown of purest white—

When a train of breathing flowers

With their incense load the air,

And the breath from southern valleys

Tell of all things bright and fair;

When the snowy clouds are floating

In the summer’s sunny sheen,

And the splendor of the mid-day

Adds a glory to the scene—

Then I wander sad and lonely

’Mid the beautiful and fair,

For my soul is still with Mary,

And I feel her spirit there.

When the gentle hour of evening

Wears her robe of blue and gold,

And the castles, plains and valleys

Are in airy clouds unrolled;

When the night-birds trim their plumage,

And the flowers meet the dew—

When the moonbeam greets the sunset

In her home of crimson hue—

When the sunset and the moonlight

Are commingled into one,

Like to molten gold and crimson,

When the gorgeous day is done—

Then I think ’t is heaven’s portals

Brightly glowing in the west,

And my lost one seems to beckon

To the regions of the blest.

When the cold and fearful midnight

Wears her coronet of jet,

And a jeweled veil of darkness

Round the form of earth has met—

Or the frowning clouds are tossing

The disheveled hair of night,

And the angry lightning flashes

With a fitful, fearful light—

When the night is dark and stormy

As the passions of the soul,

And the knell of fleeted glories

Echoes in the thunder’s roll;

When the lurid lightning flashes

With its angry light above,

It is naught I see beyond it

To my lost, my early love.