Or were you prest by one who nurst Bleak memories of love gone by, Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst In dark and erring vacancy? To him you still were fresh and green As when you grew upon the stalk, And many a breezy summer scene Came back--and many a moonlit walk; And there would be a hum of bees, A smell of childhood in the air, And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair! Then would you suddenly be blasted By the keen wind of one dark thought, One nameless woe, that had outlasted The sudden blow whereby 'twas brought. Or were you prest here by two lovers Who seemed to read these verses rare, But found between the antique covers What Spenser could not prison there: Songs which his glorious soul had heard, But his dull pen could never write, Which flew, like some gold-wingèd bird, Through the blue heaven out of sight? My heart is with them as they sit, I see the rosebud in her breast, I see her small hand taking it From out its odorous, snowy nest; I hear him swear that he will keep it, In memory of that blessed day, To smile on it or over-weep it When she and spring are far away. Ah me! I needs must droop my head, And brush away a happy tear, For they are gone, and, dry and dead, The rosebud lies before me here. Yet is it in no stranger's hand, For I will guard it tenderly, And it shall be a magic wand To bring mine own true love to me. My heart runs o'er with sweet surmises, The while my fancy weaves her rhyme, Kind hopes and musical surprises Throng round me from the olden time. I do not care to know who prest you: Enough for me to feel and know That some heart's love and longing blest you, Knitting to-day with long-ago. NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. A FRAGMENT.