Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

The Song of the Weary One.

There is no music in my heart,--
No joy within my breast;
In scenes of mirth I have no part,--
In quiet scenes no rest.

Mine is a weariness of life,--
A sickness of the soul;
An ever constant struggling strife,
My feelings to control.

Oh, it was ever--ever thus,
From childhood's earliest hour;
My spirits ever were weighed down,
By some mysterious power.

There seemed some dark, unearthly fate,
Around my life to twine;
That which brings joy to other hearts,
Brings mournfulness to mine.

And yet I am too proud to weep,
I never could complain;
And so they deem my spirit feels
No weariness or pain.

They read not in my sunken eye,
And in my faded cheek.
A weight of wretchedness and woe,
That words could never speak.

Oh, 'tis a weary--weary lot,
To live when joy is gone;--
To feel life has no sunny spot,
Yet still we must live on.

To mingle with the laughing crowd,
Yet feel we are alone;
To know there's not one human heart
Can understand our own.

Oh, Thou, who sitt'st enthroned on high,
Who every heart can see,
Look down in pity and in love,
and take me home to thee.

Lines, Inscribed to a Brother.

A New Year's gift I send to thee,
A volume filled with quaint old rhymes;
And may it wake the memory
Within thy heart, of olden times.

When we by the cheerful fireside hearth,
Together conned the glowing page,
Grave themes, and subjects full of mirth,
Did each by turns our minds engage.

Oh, then, what rapture filled my heart,
How throbb'd my brow--how burn'd my brain,
As the poet with his magic art,
Wove the deep mysteries of his strain.

But now a leaden stupor lies
Upon my dull, inactive soul;
In vain my spirit strives to rise,
From the dark mists that o'er it roll.

Nor legend old, nor wild romance.
Nor fairy tale, nor minstrel lyre,
Can with their magic power entrance,
Or one impassion'd thought inspire.

Thus, like the rosy sunset hues,
Fade fancy's pictures from the soul,
The light that youth's fair skies imbued,
Is merged in clouds that o'er us roll.

Changes

Who has not observed the mutability and ever changing aspect of earthly things? Here, in this pleasant village, where rises the towering spire, the lofty mansion and the humble cottage, with all the varieties appertaining to our village, its numerous factories and pleasant school houses, its well erected bridge over its foaming waters, once the Indian roamed, in untamed freedom, through forests unbroken by the woodman's axe. Here resounded the fierce war-whoop, and here the wild death song; here was built the council-fire, and here was smoked the pipe of peace; in fine, here on this very spot existed all the elements of savage life. The light canoe was paddled over the roaring stream, that thundered on in its majesty, even as now.

But the white man came and scattered the race, and civilization spread its changes over the scene. Thus society is ever changing; even beautiful cities that have existed in all the pomp of wealth and elegance, have now become extinct, and are covered by the dust of ages.

Man's life, too, is one constant scene of change, from infancy to childhood, from childhood to manhood, and from manhood to old age. And many are the vicissitudes which await us during our journey through life. One generation passes away to be succeeded by another; we too must change, and when we shall be sought by our friends in our accustomed places, and they shall ask, "Where are they?" Echo shall answer, "Where?"

To Mr. and Mrs. S----, On the Death of an Infant.

The fairest flow'r that blooms on earth,
And charms the gazer's eye,
Is first to lose its brilliant hues,
And fade away and die.

Soft it unfolds its petals rare,
To gentle dew and sun,
But come one blast of chilling air,
And all its beauty's gone.

E'en so is life; the glow of health
That warms the youthful cheek,
Seems to invite the tyrant Death,
His helpless prey to seek.

Thy little babe scarce 'woke to life,
And promised fair to bloom,
Ere cruel Death his victim seiz'd,
And bore it to the tomb.

We fondly watch'd with anxious eye,
For Hope had promise giv'n;
And little deem'd that passing sigh,
Had borne his soul to heav'n.

Calm as the breath of summer eve,
On flow'r and foliage shed,
And pure as midnight's heav'nly dew,
His gentle spirit fled.

Then let not grief for him abide
Within a parent's breast,
For while his flesh returns to dust,
His soul's with God at rest.

When we from earth are call'd away;
By God's own summons giv'n,
May we as tranquilly depart,
And be as sure of heav'n.