WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.
As sweeps the bark before the breeze,
While waters coldly close around,
Till of her pathway through the seas
The track no more is found;
Thus passing down Oblivion's tide,
The beauteous visions of the mind
Fleet as that ocean pageant glide,
And leave no trace behind.
But the pure page may still impart
Some dream of feeling, else untold,—
The silent record of a heart,
E'en when that heart is cold.
Its lorn memorials here may bloom,—
Perchance to gentle bosoms dear,
Like flowers that linger o'er the tomb
Bedewed with Beauty's tear.
I ask not for the meed of fame.
The wreath above my rest to twine,—
Enough for me to leave my name
Within this hallow'd shrine;
To think that o'er these lines thine eye
May wander in some future year,
And Memory breathe a passing sigh
For him who traced them here.
Calm sleeps the sea when storms are o'er,
With bosom silent and serene,
And but the plank upon the shore
Reveals that wrecks have been.
So some frail leaf like this may be
Left floating on Time's silent tide,—
The sole remaining trace of me,—
To tell I lived and died.
Malcolm's Scenes of War, &c.