BY MISS ELIZABETH S. BOGART.
We parted—friendship's dream had cast Deep interest o'er the brief farewell, And left upon the shadowy past Full many a thought on which to dwell. Such thoughts as come in early youth, And live in fellowship with hope; Robed in the brilliant hues of truth, Unfitted with the world to cope.
We parted—he went o'er the sea, And deeper solitude was mine; Yet there remained in memory, For feeling, still a sacred shrine. And thought and hope were offered up Till their ethereal essence fled, And disappointment, from the cup, Its dark libations poured, instead.
We parted—'twas an idle dream That thus we e'er should meet again; For who that knew man's heart, would deem That it could long unchanged remain. He sought a foreign clime, and learned Another language, which expressed To strangers the rich thoughts that burned With unquenched power within his breast.
And soon he better loved to speak In those new accents than his own; His native tongue seemed cold and weak, To breathe the wakened passions' tone. He wandered far, and lingered long, And drank so deep of Lethe's stream, That each new feeling grew more strong, And all the past was like a dream.
We met—a few glad words were spoken, A few kind glances were exchanged; But friendship's first romance was broken, His had been from me estranged. I felt it all—we met no more— My heart was true, but it was proud; Life's early confidence was o'er, And hope had set beneath a cloud.
We met no more—for neither sought To reunite the severed chain Of social intercourse; for nought Could join its parted links again. Too much of the wide world had been Between us for too long a time; And he had looked on many a scene, The beautiful and the sublime.
And he had themes on which to dwell, And memories that were not mine, Which formed a separating spell, And drew a mystic boundary line. His thoughts were wanderers—and the things Which brought back friendship's joys to me, To him were but the spirit's wings Which bore him o'er the distant sea.
For he had seen the evening star Glancing its rays o'er ocean's waves, And marked the moonbeams from afar, Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves. And he had gazed on trees and flowers Beneath Italia's sunny skies, And listened, in fair ladies' bowers, To genius' words, and beauty's sighs.
His steps had echoed through the halls Of grandeur, long left desolate; And he had climbed the crumbling walls, Or op'd perforce the hingeless gate; And mused o'er many an ancient pile, In ruin still magnificent, Whose histories could the hours beguile With dreams, before to fancy lent.