Thus, thus must thou dwell on each glance of affection, Each token of love I have strewed at thy shrine, When thy bosom first heaved at the fear of detection, And its secret alone was imparted to mine; It is linked with each thought that is born in thy waking, It embosoms each fancy that softens thy sleep, And, if e’er it be wild as the waves in their breaking, ’Tis the image of Heaven that breaks on the deep! For vainly the bosom whose pulses have throbbed To the beat of a heart it had warmed with its fire, Seeks to freeze the remembrance of tears it has sobbed, And to smother the anguish of pining desire; The remembrance will live, the remembrance will cling. As the ever-green ivy encircles the oak, And the tempest may strike with its withering wing, But together they bend and together are broke! Bright star of my soul! thus united we stand, Intermingled in being and blended in breath, Come fate with her darkest, her gloomiest band, We will bend, we will break undivided in death; ’Twas Heaven decreed it, ’twas Heaven that wove The tie which has bound us in home and in heart, And this only we know, we live on but to love, And thus loving we never, oh, never can part! * * * * * 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! * * * * * THE LAST SONG. FROM THE GERMAN. [Illustration] “When will your bards be weary Of rhyming on? How long Ere it is sung and ended, The old, eternal song? “Is it not, long since, empty, The horn of full supply; And all the posies gathered, And all the fountains dry?”