Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

The Human Heart

The human heart's a mystery,
That few can understand;
And all its trembling chords should be
Swept with a gentle hand.

For if we rudely strike the strings
Whence melody should flow,
A harsh, unnatural discord rings,
Of bitterness and woe.

We mingle with the joyous crowd,
Where all is bright and gay,
With music light, and laughter loud,
They pass the hours away.

How oft, amid such scenes, the heart
Is sad, we know not why;
And though a smile the lips may part,
A tear steals to the eye.

And then we quickly turn away
To hide the starting tear,
While the music of their laughter falls
Dirge-like upon the ear.

And we wonder why, when all around
Is song and revelry,
Their joyous mirthfulness should sound,
To us, so mournfully.

And yet, sometimes the simplest thing,
Such happiness affords,
It seems as though an angel's wing
Had swept the trembling chords.

The gushing music of the rill,
The whisp'ring of the breeze,
And the low and gentle rustling
Of the leaves upon the trees.

The sweet, sad sighing autumn winds,
As mournfully they blend,
Speak to the heart as if in words,
Of a departed friend.

And as we listen, breathlessly,
To the low, mysterious tone,
We deem some angel spirit
Is whisp'ring to our own.

But suddenly, a careless tone,
Or word in harshness spoken,
Recalls the wand'ring spirit home,
And the spell is rudely broken.

And then a sad, lone feeling steals
Upon the weary heart,
And amid the gloom we only feel
A longing to depart.

A longing to depart and be
Amid the angel choir,
Where perfect love and sympathy
Shall tune each heart and lyre.

Lines, Written on the Death of a Friend.

Oh, who would check the starting tear,
Or who suppress the rising sigh,
When those we fondly cherished here,
In early youth are called to die?

Such was thy fate, my early friend,
Thus snatch'd away in beauty's bloom;
No aid that earthly love might lend,
Could save thee, dear one, from the tomb.

I call to mind thy greetings warm,
Thy gentle smile, thy winning grace,
And weep that now thy fragile form,
Lies cold and still in Death's embrace.

But though I miss thy winning smile,
And the sweet music of thy voice,
That could my weary heart beguile;
Yet I, amid my tears, rejoice,

That thou, thus early, didst depart:
When all around was fair and bright:
Ere yet thy fond, confiding heart
Had felt of earthly woe the blight.

For it is sweeter, far, to die
When the young heart with hope is fill'd,
Than live o'er ruined hopes, to sigh
When cold distrust that heart has chill'd.

Who would not rather pass away
From earth, like some sweet summer flow'r,
When the soft murmuring zephyrs play.
Than live till wintry tempests lower?

We trust thy sins have been forgiv'n;
Thy soul made pure from guilt's dark stain;
And that a ransom'd soul in heav'n,
Thou'lt raise to God the angelic strain.

Then let no murmuring thought arise,
Though lonely oft my path may be,
And bitter tears oft dim my eyes,
Unbidden, at the thought of thee.

Still the sweet memory of thy love,
Has power to sooth my aching heart;
Even as crush'd and withered flow'rs,
A lasting fragrance oft impart.

To a Friend.

Dear girl, thine eye is clear and bright,
Fill'd with a glad and joyous light;
And thy young brow is pure and fair,
As thou hadst never known a care.

Full oft, I gaze upon thy face,
Where dwells a sweet and quiet grace;
And wonder what thy fate may be,
Upon life's dark and dangerous sea.

Ah, many a rude, tempestous gale,
Perchance, may rend thy little sail,
Ere thou wilt reach that blissful shore,
Where loving friends have gone before.

Even now, sweet girl, young as thou art,
Sorrow hath touched thy loving heart,
And clouds have dimmed thy sky, so fair,
And left a shadow resting there.

Thou'st lost a mother, kind and dear,
No more her sweet voice greets thine ear--
In winning tones, that could impart
Gladness and joy to thy young heart.

No more her gentle hand is laid
In loving kindness on thy head;--
No more her soft eyes rest on thee,
Fill'd with a tender sympathy.

Oft will the world seem cold the while,
Without her sweet, approving smile;
Oft will thy heart be sad and weary,
With no fond mother's voice to cheer thee.

Thy loved and honored father, too,--
Thy faithful guardian, kind and true,
Whose stronger arm could shield thy form,
And guard it from the impending storm;--

Who loved to watch thine infant glee,
And shared thy childish sports with thee,--
He, too, from earthly scenes has fled,
And joined the numbers of the dead.

Brothers and sisters, a happy band,
Await thee in the spirit land;
Bright amaranthine crowns they wear;
They long to greet their Ella there.

Prepare thee for that better land,--
Prepare to stand at God's right hand;
Soon may the fatal summons come,
To call thy waiting spirit home.

Oh, then slight not the Saviour's call,--
Into the arms of Jesus fall;
Sweetly resign to him thy soul,
Yield all thy powers to his control.

Happiness.

Say, what is Happiness?--a gem
That glitters in the diadem
That decks the monarch's brow?
Or does this gem, of form divine,
Gild fortune's gay and jewell'd shrine,
Where heartless flatterers bow?

Or dwells it in the sparkling eye,--
Or hides it 'neath the witchery
Of beauty's loveliness?
Or comes it with refreshing power,
Like dewdrops to the fainting flower,
The miser's heart to bless?

No, seek it not in Monarchs' hall,
Nor yet beneath the glittering pall,
That hides Ambition's fane;
Nor yet with Beauty does it dwell:
It is not charm'd by magic spell,
Nor bound by golden chain,

But they whose hearts with love are fill'd,
"Whose words like heav'nly dew distill'd,"
Are ever just and kind;
Who seek God's favor to obtain,
Rather than praise of man to gain,
This gem will surely find.

A Picture of Human Life.

It was morning. Rosy fingered Aurora lifted the gorgeous curtains of the east, and unlocked the golden gates of light, ushering in the young king of day. The glad earth, bathed with the dews of night, and redolent with flowers, lay blushing and rejoicing beneath his radiant beams, and blooming nature strode forth, clad in his most beautiful garments, while the murmurs of the waterfall, the sigh of the breeze, the carol of the birds, and the hum of busy life--all fell upon the ear, making enchanting melody--music that touched the soul.