Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

Why should I smile in mockery now,
When grief sits heavy on my brow?
Or strive in anguish to repress
The tears of gushing tenderness,
That from my heart's deep fountain rise,
And rush unbidden to my eyes?
Oh let me weep, for there's a balm
In tears, they bring a holy calm:
And yield a soothing, sweet relief
To hearts that else would burst with grief.
Yes, I will weep in hopeless woe,
Until my tears refuse to flow;
For lo! before my mental gaze,
The hopes and joys of other days,
Come gathering round, a mystic band,
Like phantoms from the spirit land;
And one by one they pass me by,
"With bloodless cheek and hollow eye,"
And seem to mock me as they go,
In tones of bitterness and woe.
Oh, how unlike the glittering throng
That smiling beckon'd me along,
And strewd with fragrant flow'rs my way,
In childhood's bright and sunny day.
They came in glittering robes arrayed,
O'er golden harps their fingers strayed,
And from their robes of spotless white
They scattered showers of sparkling light.
O, how could my fond heart believe
They glittered only to deceive;
To visions bright as fairy land.
Hope pointed with her magic hand,
And love, with soft and speaking eye,
And tones of thrilling witchery,
A dream like mist around me threw,
Ting'd by many a rainbow hue.
And friendship, with her smiling face,
Clasped me within her warm embrace,
And fondly whisper'd in mine ear,
Sweet words of hope I loved to hear.
And O, how fondly did I fling
On friendship's shrine, the offering
Of my young heart: nor could I deem
Her words were but an idle dream;
But oh, the illusion fled too late,
It left my heart all desolate.

The Youth's Return.

'Twas evening, and sweet melting strains
Of music floated by,
While the soft splendor glowed around,
Of an Italian sky.

Within a green and fragrant bower,
Sat a young, dark eyed girl;
And midst her glossy raven hair,
Shone many a costly pearl.

Fair was that high born maiden's brow,
And stately was her air;
And the proud beauty of her face
Was all undimmed by care.

And in her dark and shadowy eye
There dwelt a tender light,
Like some soft trembling star that shines
Upon the brow of night.

And the sweet music of her voice
Was thrilling, soft and low,
As tones of an Aeolian harp,
When southern breezes blow.

And costly gems that lady wore,
And jewels rich and rare,
But her beauty far outshone
The brightest jewel there.

Bright, glowing pictures hung around,
So exquisitely fair--
Touched with such wondrous skill they seemed
To breathe in beauty there.

Delicious odor fill'd the room,
Wafted from orange bow'rs:
The fragrance mingling with perfume,
Of rare exotic flow'rs.

In thoughtful mood that lady sat,
While her dark, lustrous eye,
Looked out in pensive tenderness,
Upon the glowing sky.

She thought upon a noble youth,
A brave and gallant knight,
Whose heart was true to woman's love,
And strong amid the fight.

And noble deeds that youth had done,
And won a glorious name;
Which future ages would enroll
Upon the book of fame.

E'en now, he hastes that maid to greet--
Safe from the war returned;
Impatient at her feet to lay
The laurels he had earned.

Ah, lady, thou wilt never more
Thy gallant lover see;
His eye of melting tenderness
Will never rest on thee.

Death saw that gentle maiden there,
By dreams of love beguiled;
He gazed upon her winning charms,
As hideously he smiled.

Full many a bright and lovely form,
Beneath his touch had died;
But she, the loveliest of them all,
He thought to make his bride.

With noiseless step and watchful eye
He stole into her bower;
She felt his chill and icy breath,
And withered in an hour.

The soft light faded from her eye,
And pallid grew her face,
As folded in Death's icy arms,
She felt his cold embrace.

Her breath came heavily and slow,
Vainly she tried to speak;
The life blood froze around her heart,
And curdled in her cheek.

And when her maidens sought her there
At the accustomed hour,
They found her cold and motionless,
Within that leafy bower.

To A----.

When the spring tide of thy life shall have passed away, with all its joyous anticipations and budding hopes--when Summer with the music of its birds and the perfume of its flowers, and melancholy Autumn, with its faded leaf and sighing winds, shall have chased each other down the tide of time, and the cold blasts of Winter have begun to chill the life-blood in thy veins--when the hand that penned these lines shall be mouldering in dust, and the friends of thy youth who journeyed with thee along the pathway of life, and who cheered thee with the music of their voices and the light of their smiles have, perchance, one by one passed away, and left thee to journey on in loneliness of heart, when the light of thine own eye shall have become dimmed, and thy sunny hair whitened by the frosts of age--when thy voice, which was wont to gush forth in melody and song, entrancing the ear and cheering the heart of the listener, has become weak and tremulous, and care and sorrow have set their seal upon thy brow. Oh, then may the recollection of no misspent hours, of no neglected opportunities for doing good, or wasted privileges, arise like dim meteors from the tomb to haunt thee with their reproach, but may the smiles of an approving conscience beam upon thee; may sweet peace and hope administer the balm of consolation to thy wounded spirit; may angels hover o'er the couch of thy repose, and fan thee with their balmy wings, and when thy tired spirit shall burst its prison house of clay,

May they bear it to mansions of the blest,
There to repose on Jesus' breast;
From every pain and sorrow free,--
This is the boon I ask for thee.

Beauties of Nature.

This is indeed a beautiful world. As we sit by our window, and gaze out upon the landscape that lies spreads out, diversified by hill and dale, and and waving tree and murmuring rivulet; as we listen to the warbling of the birds, the dreamy hum of the insects, and the low whispering of the soft summer air, as it floats by, redolent with perfume of flowers, we are deeply impressed with the truth, that the Being, who could create such a world, must be a great and glorious Being, before whom we ought to humble ourselves in deep humility.

Yet the little that we are able to behold at one view, is but as a grain of sand upon the sea-shore, compared with the vast world that lies stretched out beyond our vision. Diversified by lofty mountains, whose snow-capped summits tower far up towards the blue vault of heaven, and are covered with perpetual clouds and mists; the mighty ocean, whose bosom heaves, and moans, and wails, as though convulsed by some terrible agony, and which, in its frantic fits, rages with ungovernable fury; the deep, broad, glassy rivers, that flow in quiet beauty, to mingle their waters with the ocean, the foaming cataract, the broad green prairie, variegated by nature's choicest flowers, the old majestic woods, that have been styled nature's cathedral, whose dim, silent, far-stretching aisles have never been trodden by the foot of man; but I must stop, overwhelmed by the magnitude of my subject. It were impossible for the most gifted pen to do justice to the beauty, the grandeur, the sublimity of the theme.

Even those who have climbed the lofty mountain tops, and found themselves lost amidst the clouds, who have been rocked upon the bosom of the heaving ocean, and seen it when the elements held terrible contest, when the howling winds lashed its waves to wild frenzy, when the sheeted lightnings played upon its surface, and the deep, heavy peals of thunder reverberated through the heaven's vast concave, and those, too, who have traversed the broad prairie, that far as the eye can reach, stretches out in wavy undulations, who have heard the eternal thunder of the cataract, as its waters plunge madly into the abyss below, who have wandered amidst orange bowers and spicy groves, and as Pollock expresses it, "have mused on ruins grey with years, and drank from old and fabulous wells, and plucked the vine that first born prophets plucked; and mused on famous tombs, and on the waves of ocean mused, and on the desert waste: the heavens and earth of every country, seen where'er the old inspiring Genii dwelt, aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul," even such would fail to do justice to the glowing theme.