MEMORY.

———

BY LYDIA L. A. VERY.

———

“ ’Tis in the morning that the church-yard of Memory gives up its dead.”

Let them rise from the heart’s tomb;

Spirits, not of sadness or gloom—

White-robed thoughts of Childhood’s truth,

Cherished hopes that filled our youth.

Let them rise a shining band

Coming from the Spirit-Land.

Let them rise! each well-known face,

Where so oft we loved to trace

Smiles that beamed for us alone,

Eyes o’er which Death’s veil is thrown—

Let them gather round our bed

All unheard their noiseless tread!

Let their eyes of love still speak,

Let their breath be on our cheek,

And their voice in our ear

Murmur words we loved to hear:

Let their spirits fair and bright

Visit us at morning light.

Death, who cometh thief-like, still

Taking Life’s bright gems at will;

With us early, with us late,

Making hearth-stones desolate—

Death, who visits all Life’s bowers.

Cannot gather Memory’s flowers!