There is many a bright star gleaming, In memory’s distant sky, And their soft light is streaming On days long, long gone by. And often hover round me The loved and lost of yore, Ere cankering care had found me, Or life’s young dream was o’er! We see at early morning Soft hues steal o’er the sky, Its eastern arch adorning, To glad the raptured eye, But deem not their complexion, Like flowers in joyous spring, Is caused by the reflection From passing angel’s wing! E’en thus, our thoughts concealing. We watch o’er woman’s cheek The hues of beauty stealing, With hearts too full to speak, And little think those blushes, Like June’s young roses fair, Come when some angel brushes His loving pinions there! O, fair young ALICE VERNON, To thee fond memory turns, As loving sun-flowers turn on Their stems when noon-day burns! We roamed the woods together In life’s young break of day, Ere clouds and wintry weather Had shadowed o’er our way! Bright were thy braided tresses, As braided sunbeams are, And like a glimpse of Heaven The smile that thou didst wear. That smile still haunts my memory Like tale of fairy land, And oft in dreamy mood I see Thy form before me stand! Sweet, laughing ALICE VERNON, It seemeth strange to me, And yet they tell me Time hath laid His heavy hand on thee! I cannot deem thee faded, Though weary suns have set On weary, weary, weary days And years since last we met! I feel it now—the fairest things Are doomed to pass away, And yet my heart the firmest clings To those that first decay! And so, sweet ALICE VERNON, I turn to thee always, As flowers their stems will turn on To drink the sun’s bright rays! * * * * * SONG. ON THE WIDE WORLD I AM SAILING. On the wide world I am sailing, My bark is on the tide; The lead and the line are trailing, And the spread sail reaches wide. With the ebb and flow I’m gliding, Adown the stream of Time; ’Mong breakers oft I am riding, And o’er the wrecks of crime. ’Mid troubled waves wild dashing, When storms and tempests come; ’Mid heaven and earth’s wild crashing, My life-boat is my home. Then out on the wild world roaming, In troubles or in sport; On the stream of Time wild foaming, My cold grave is my port! AGNES. * * * * * MAJOR ANSPACH. FROM THE FRENCH OF MARC FOURNIER. (_Concluded from page 286_) [Illustration] CHAPTER IV.