BY JENNIE DOWLING DE WITT.
THE light of other days, my love,
Is o'er my vision softly stealing;
The music of thy bridal vows,
Like harp-notes, up the past is pealing.
But lip, nor eye, nor sunny brow,
Nor cheek with witching dimples lighted,
Were half so dear to me as now,
When years have proved the love we plighted.
Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear,