Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

To I----.

My long neglected lyre I'll take,
And seek its echoes to awake;
But it hath lain untuned so long,
Scarce can I hope to frame a song.

Yet, when I sweep the trembling strings,
A low sad wail of music rings;
Encouraged by that gentle strain,
I'll touch the silken cords again.

I wish thee happiness, my friend,--
Such as on virtue doth attend;
And pray that grief's dark funeral pall
May ne'er upon thy young heart fall.

O may an interest in Christ's blood,--
Thy soul, bathed in that crimson flood,
Shall be from guilt's dark stain set free,
Thy sins no more imputed thee.

I wish a friend, faithful and kind,
Noble, sincere, pure and refined,
Whose sympathy with thine shall blend,
And to life's duties sweetness lend.

Loving and loved, thy bark shall glide
Smoothly along life's rapid tide,
Until 'tis launched upon the sea
Of infinite eternity.

Lines, Written for a Friend upon the 20th Anniversary of Her Birthday.

Would some kind Muse my heart inspire,
With the poetic heaven-born fire,
That did in olden times belong
To gifted bards, of ancient song.

Then could I wake a thrilling strain
That would with mystic power enchain,
But now, alas! my untaught lyre
Can to no lofty themes aspire.

How many scenes of joy and grief,
Trac'd o'er life's ever-varying leaf,
Have pass'd since first thy mother smiled
On thee, a little helpless child.

Though few thy years on earth have been,
In the past view, dark clouds are seen;
The cup prepared for thee to drain,
Has not been all unmix'd with pain,

The future now before thee lies,
Still unreveal'd to human eyes;
But to imagination's view,
Bright visions gleam the vista through.

The future, who would dare to look
Into that still unopened book?
What mortal would presume to read
The hidden mysteries there decreed.

Oh, Ellen, let it be thy prayer,
What e'er of ill is written there,
That thou may'st ever bear thy part,
With humble and submissive heart.

But if its pages should unfold
Thy destiny, inscribed in gold,
If radiant joy, with pinions bright,
Should round thy path shed rosy light,

Oh, then forget not those whom God
Has chasten'd with a heavy rod,
Let the poor stricken mourner find
In thee, a friend sincere and kind.

And when old Time, with sly embrace,
Steals the bright rose-tint from thy face,
Still keep thy heart in love and truth,
Guileless as in thy early youth.

As you review each closing year,
May no grim phantoms there appear
Casting dark shadows in the scene,
Thy view and happiness between.

But in their stead may sweet content,
A consciousness of life well spent,--
A trusting heart to thee be given,
And last of all a crown in heav'n.

Human Thought

Oh, how deep and unfathomable is human thought. It descends into the lowest depths of the ocean, and into the mines, caverns and inmost recesses of the earth, or is borne aloft upon the soaring pinions of imagination, to the vaulted, star-lit sky above our heads; we can trace the azure canopy, and wander from star to star, or contemplate the silvery moon, in all her full-orbed glory, or trace the golden sun, as he runs his journey through the heavens, and hides behind the crimson curtains of the west, in majestic splendor. And though the body be confined to the restless, feverish couch of pain, thought flies untrammelled through the circuit of the globe, far--far to the frigid regions of the north, where almost eternal winter reigns, and we view the hardy inhabitant of that sterile clime, wrapped in his furs, drawn by the swift-footed reindeer, across the barren glebe.

But, sudden as the lightning's flash, thought wings us across intervening space, to the sultry, arid plains of India, where seated upon the huge elephant, the inhabitants screen themselves from the burning rays of the vertical sun, and all nature seems fainting beneath the oppressive heat; there the deluded mother tosses her struggling infant into the serpentine Granges, and bowing before her idol, thinks she has appeased her God; we at a glance visit Afric's billowy strand, her vast sandy deserts, spotted here and there with an oasis, where the toil-worn traveller stops to refresh himself; and then turning to America--our own happy America, the land of freedom, we there see thousands of Afric's sable sons groaning beneath the galling bondage of slavery.

But after thought thus visits every portion of the globe, and sits down to contemplate what is the conclusion of the whole matter, is not "passing away" legibly written upon the whole earth, and upon each succeeding generation of man, for "one generation passeth away and another generation cometh," and death conquers all. Happy are they, whose thoughts, enriched by the promises of the gospel, "can soar beyond the narrow bounds of time, and fix their hopes of happiness on heaven."

Lines, Written on the Departure of a Brother.

Dear brother, is it even so?
And are we doomed to part?--
We who have been through weal and woe
United, hand and heart.

Ah, would that I could share thy fate,
Upon Life's stormy sea;
I'd deem no sacrifice too great,
That I might make for thee.

But no, it may not--cannot be,--
The world before thee lies;
And fairer lands are spread for thee,
Beneath more genial skies.

There's many a spot, of which we're told,
In legend and romance,
Where plumed knights were wont of old
To meet with sword and lance.

And there's a charm that lingers round
Each ruined tower and shrine;--
Full well I know its magic power,
On such a heart as thine.

Then go; I would not seek to chain
Thy spirit bold and free;
Although I feel when thou art gone,
How lonely I shall be.

I know thee noble; have I not
From childhood's earliest hour
Witnessed thy spirit's mastery
O'er dark temptation's power.

Go, and ambition's heights explore,--
Seek Honor, Wealth and Fame;
But prize than gold or jewels more
A pure, untarnished name.

But when far o'er the deep blue sea,
In other lands you roam,
Forget not those who prayed with thee,
In thy sunny childhood's home,

Forget not, when you mingle with
The beautiful and gay,
And yield your heart to pleasure's charms,
A sister far away.

Though rosy lips may on you smile,
And bright eyes turn to thine,
Dear brother, thou wilt never find
One truer heart than mine.