TO ONE WHO RESTS.

I THOUGHT my heart had cast away Each memory of its early day; I thought nor grief, nor change, nor fear, Could teach these eyes to shed a tear; And yet, a very child I be, Alas, I still remember thee! I often gaze with heart unmoved On lips that smile like thine, beloved; I often catch a deep low tone, That bears the music of thine own; Yet pass, without a tear or smile, My pulses calm and cool, the while. Thou, dearest, hast been linked to me By things which never more can be; By memories of that lovely place, That village, quiet in its grace, Like lilies, in the summer air, That stir not; knowing they are fair. And those who trod its mossy walks, And shared with me those woodland talks, 'Till our hearts, hungry for the pain Of loving, to be loved again, Learned the deep meaning of a word Which had been better never heard. Thou, and thy love, were of that time When life was but a passion—rhyme; When I knew not that care might come Even to that sweet mountain home; When stars and streams and flowers were part Of this, then calmly beating heart. So, when the martyr's cross was mine, I chose another love than thine; Our hearts, but not our souls, were mates, Our love the same, but not our fates; And he who, in these later years, Seeks me, seeks also scorching tears. 'Tis long since I have breathed thy name! It once could turn my heart to flame; But now, so changed and cold am I, I only speak it with a sigh, That dreams, whose proper home is Heaven, To hearts o'ertasked with Earth, are given! Oh, long forsaken! no fond dream, Floating (like flowers on a stream), Down the wild current of my mind, Counts o'er the joys I've left behind, A little thing has drawn these tears, For thee, and for our early years! A moment since I cast a look Within the pages of a book Which thou to me hast often read, Thy shoulder pillowing my head; A faint, sweet perfume thence arose; There lay thy gift—a faded rose! It was as if an altar burned With sacrifices, and I turned— Beloved, do not think me weak! Tears, wild with grief, fled down my cheek, And to my lips arose a prayer That I might die while pausing there! My song is o'er; 'twill only tell, To some who know and love me well, At times, within my inmost soul, Are thoughts I cannot quite control, Because they breathe and speak of thee, Who can be nothing now to me!