The young babe sat on its mother's knee,
Shaking its coral and bells with glee,
When Hope drew near with a seraph smile,
And kiss'd the lips that had spoke no guile,
Nor breath'd the words of sorrow.
Its little sister brought a flower,
And Hope still lingering nigh,
With sunny tress and sparkling eye,
Whisper'd of buds in a brighter bower
It might cull for itself to-morrow.
The boy came in from the wintry snow,
And mus'd by the parlor fire,—
But ere the evening lamps did glow
A stranger came with a thoughtful brow;
"What is that in your hand?" she said;
"My new-year's gift, with its covers red."
"Bring hither the book, my boy, and see
The magic spell of Memory;—
That page hath gold, and a way I'll find
To lock it safe in your docile mind:
For books have honey, the sages say,
That is sweet to the taste, when the hair is grey."
The youth at midnight sought his bed,
But ere he closed his eyes
Two forms drew near with a gentle tread,
In meek and saintly guise;
One struck a lyre of wondrous power,
With thrilling music fraught,
That chain'd the flying summer hour,
And charm'd the listener's thought—
For still would its tuneful cadence be,
"Follow me! Follow me!
And every morn a smile shall bring
As sweet as the merry lay I sing."
But when she ceas'd, with serious air
The other made reply,
"Shall he not also be my care?
May not I his pleasures share?
Sister! Sister! tell me why?
Need Memory e'er with Hope contend?
Doth not the virtuous soul still find in both a friend?"
The youth beheld the strife,
And earnestly replied,
"Come, each shall be my guide—
Both gild the path of life:"
So he gave to each a trusting kiss,
And laid him down, and his dream was bliss.
The man came forth to run his race,
And ever when the morning light
Rous'd him from the trance of night,
When singing from her nest
The lark went up with a dewy breast,
Hope by his pillow stood with angel grace—
And as a mother cheers her son,
She girded his daily harness on.
And when the star of eve from weary care
Bade him to his home repair;
When by the hearth-stone where his joys were born,
The cricket wound its tiny horn,
Sober Memory spread her board,
With knowledge richly stor'd,
And supp'd with him, and like a guardian blest
His nightly rest.
The old man sat in his elbow-chair,
His locks were thin and grey—
Memory, that faithful friend was there,
And he in a querulous tone did say,
"Hast thou not lost with careless key
Something that I have entrusted to thee?"
Her pausing answer was sad and low,
"It may be so! It may be so!
The lock of my casket is worn and weak,
And Time with a plunderer's eye doth seek:
Something I miss, but I cannot say
What it is he hath stolen away—
For it seems that tinsel and trifles spread
Over the alter'd path we tread:
But the gems thou didst give me when life was new,
Look! here they are, all told and true,
Diamonds and rubies of changeless hue."
Thus, while in grave debate,
Mournful and ill at ease they sate,
Finding treasures disarranged,
Blaming the fickle world, when they themselves were chang'd,
Hope, on a brilliant wing did soar,
Which folded neath her robe she long had wore,
And spread its rainbow plumes with new delight,
And hazarded its strength in a bold heavenward flight.
The dying lay on his couch of pain,
And his soul went forth to the angel train—
Yet when heaven's gate its golden bars undrew,
Memory walked that portal through,
And spread her tablet to the Judge's eye,
Heightening with clear response the welcome of the sky.
But at that threshold high,
Hope faltered with a drooping eye,
And as the expiring rose
Doth in its last adieu its sweetest breath disclose,
Laid down to die.
As a spent harp its symphony doth roll,
Faintly her parting sigh
Greeted a glorious form that stood serenely by:
"Earth's pilgrim I resign;
I cheered him to his grave—I lov'd him—he was mine;
Christ hath redeemed his soul—
Immortal Joy! 'tis thine." |