'Tis past--that Speaking Form is flown-- But memory's pleased and listening ear, Shall oft recall that choral tone, To love and poetry so dear. And far away in after time, Shall blended Piety and Love Find fond expression in the rhyme, Bequeathed to earth by One above. * * * * * Poor lute!--thy bounding pulse is still,-- Yet all thy silence I forgive, That thus thy last--thy dying thrill, Would make Her gentle virtues live! [Footnote A: Written by request for the "Memorial," a work published in New-York, 1850, in commemoration of the late Frances S. Osgood,--edited by Mary E. Hewett.] The Old Oak. [Illustration: The Old Oak] Friend of my early days, we meet once more! Once more I stand thine aged boughs beneath, And hear again the rustling music pour, Along thy leaves, as whispering spirits breathe. Full many a day of sunshine and of storm, Since last we parted, both have surely known; Thy leaves are thinned, decrepit is thy form,-- And all my cherished visions, they are flown! How beautiful, how brief, those sunny hours Departed now, when life was in its spring-- When Fancy knew no scene undecked with flowers, And Expectation flew on Fancy's wing! Here, on the bank, beside this whispering stream, Which still runs by as gayly as of yore, Marking its eddies, I was wont to dream Of things away, on some far fairy shore. Then every whirling leaf and bubbling ball, That floated by, was full of radiant thought; Each linked with love, had music at its call, And thrilling echoes o'er my bosom brought. The bird that sang within this gnarled oak, The waves that dallied with its leafy shade, The mellow murmurs from its boughs that broke, Their joyous tribute to my spirit paid. No phantom rose to tell of future ill, No grisly warning marr'd my prophet dreams-- My heart translucent as the leaping rill, My thoughts all free and flashing at its beams. Here is the grassy knoll I used to seek At summer noon, beneath the spreading shade, And watch the flowers that stooped with glowing cheek, To meet the romping ripples as they played. Here is the spot which memory's magic glass Hath often brought, arrayed in fadeless green, Making this oak, this brook, this waving grass-- A simple group--fond Nature's fairest scene. And as I roamed beside the Rhone or Rhine, Or other favored stream, in after days, With jealous love, this rivulet would shine, Full on my heart, and claim accustomed praise. And oh! how oft by sorrow overborne, By care oppressed, or bitter malice wrung, By friends betrayed, or disappointment torn, My weary heart, all sickened and unstrung--