SONG.
I long to forget thee! but every sweet scene
Reminds me too strongly of days that have been;
Where can I look round me, but something recalls
Our friendship, our love,—and my spirit enthralls?
Each nook of the mountain—each cot of the gill—
The rush of the river—the flow of the rill—
The trees of the forest—the gems of the lea—
All whisper of childhood, of virtue, and thee.
When in spring-time the violets and primroses bloom,
When in summer the wild thyme is wafting perfume;
When autumn is mellowly tinging the trees,
And in winter’s cold blast when the mountain streams freeze;
When bright glows the sun-ray—when soft moon-light shines
On the aged church tower, and dark waving pines—
Each season shall tell of some ever-fled bliss,
Of the press of thine hand, or the balm of thy kiss.
Thou wert long the sole theme of my earliest lays,
And my wild harp’s first breathings were all in thy praise;
When in fancy that wild harp I hung on the yew,
I thought not the fancy would e’er prove untrue.
I deem’d not the form that beside me reclin’d
In the haunt of the green-wood would e’er prove unkind—
Unkind to a heart that but liv’d for thy love,
And has pray’d for thy weal to the spirit above.
’Tis evening! the hues of the sun-set are fled—
A deep sombre mist o’er the valley is spread—
The tall cliffs are wrapp’d in the shades of the night,
And Dernebrook no longer is lapsing in light:
The burst of the morning the gloom shall dispel,
And a halo of glory gild valley and fell—
Yet a shade o’er my destiny ever will be,
And, Emma! that shade is—remembrance of thee!
T. Q. M.
TRASHING.
A Bridal Custom in Yorkshire.
To the Editor.