How thrills once more the lengthening chain Of memory at the thought of thee!―― Old hopes which long in dust have lain, Old dreams come thronging back again, And boyhood lives again in me; I feel its glow upon my cheek, Its fulness of the heart is mine, As when I lean’d to hear thee speak, Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. I hear again thy low replies, I feel thy arm within my own, And timidly again uprise The fringed lids of hazel eyes With soft brown tresses overblown. Ah! memories of sweet summer eves, Of moonlit wave and willowy way, Of stars and flowers and dewy leaves, And smiles and tones more dear than they! Ere this thy quiet eye hath smiled My picture of thy youth to see, When half a woman, half a child, Thy very artlessness beguiled, And folly’s self seem’d wise in thee. I too can smile, when o’er that hour The lights of memory backward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood’s power Is vainer than my boyhood’s dream. Years have pass’d on, and left their trace Of graver care and deeper thought; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace Of woman’s pensive beauty brought, On life’s rough blasts for blame or praise The schoolboy’s name has widely flown; Thine in the green and quiet ways Of unobtrusive goodness known. And wider yet in thought and deed Our still diverging thoughts incline, Thine the Genevan’s sternest creed, While answers to my spirit’s need The Yorkshire peasant’s simple line. For thee the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day and solemn psalm, For me the silent reverence where My brethren gather, slow and calm. Yet hath thy spirit left on me An impress time has not worn out, And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see Lingering even yet thy way about; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time’s dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers. Thus, while at times before our eye The clouds about the present part, And, smiling through them, round us lie Soft hues of memory’s morning sky―― The Indian summer of the heart, In secret sympathies of mind, In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find Our early dreams not wholly vain! * * * * * THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.