A thousand memories of the past Were busy in each glowing breast, And hope upon the future cast Her rainbow hues—and we were blest. I craved a boon—oh! in that boon There was a wild, delirious bliss— Ah, didst thou ever gaze, sweet moon, Upon a more impassioned kiss? The parting came—one moment brief Her dim and fading form I viewed— ’Twas gone—and there I stood in grief Amid life’s awful solitude. Tell me, sweet moon, for thou canst tell, If passion still unchanged is hers— Do thoughts of me her heart still swell Among her many worshipers? Say, does she sometimes wander now At eve beneath thy gentle flame, To raise to heaven her angel-brow And breathe her absent lover’s name! Oh when her gentle lids are wet, I pray thee, mark each falling gem, And tell me if my image yet Is pictured tremblingly in them! Ay, tell me, does her bosom thrill As wildly as of yore for me— Does her young heart adore me still, Or is that young heart changed like thee? Oh let thy beams, that softest shine, If still my love to her is dear, Bear to her gentle heart from mine A sigh, a blessing, and a tear. * * * * * SPIRIT OF HOPE. BY MRS. E. J. EAMES. Enchantress, come! and charm my cares to rest. HOW shall I lure thee to my side again, Thou, who wert once the Angel of my Youth? Thou, who didst woo me with thy blandest strain— Tinting wild Fancy with the hues of Truth; Whose plumy shape, floating in rosy light, Showered purest pearl-drops from its fairy wing, Making earth’s pathway like the day-star bright, Thou charmer rare of life’s enchanted spring! Fair were the scenes thy radiant pencil drew, When on my eyes the early beauty broke: And thy rich-ringing lyre, when life was new, A glowing rapture in my bosom woke. Then thy gay sister Fancy made my dreams Lovely, and lightsome as the summer-hours, And in her fairy loom wrought hues and gleams That clothed the Ideal in a robe of flowers. _Now_, thou hast vanished from my yearning sight— Thou comest no more in melting softness drest— No more thou weavest sweet visions of delight, No charm thou bring’st to lull my heart to rest. The bloom has faded from thy face, dear Hope— The light is lost—the shadow comes not back! Thy green oasis-flowers no more re-ope, To scatter fragrance o’er life’s desert track.