At times, sweet visions float across my mind, And glimpses of the unknown bright and fair, Where all the objects seem so well defined-- Tasteful in color, and in beauty rare, That I must pause and think if they be real, Or only what the poets call ideal. I well remember when a little child, I had these same strange, wand'ring fancies; And I was told my thoughts were running wild, That I must not indulge in such romances. Wasting in idle dreams the precious hours, Building air castles and gazing from the towers. E'en then I seemed to see familiar friends, Pertaining to a dim, uncertain past; And to my recollection faintly clings, A sense of something which the shadows cast, That showed me what my future life would be, A prophecy, as 'twere, of destiny. There was an intuition in my heart, An innate consciousness of right and wrong, That bade me choose a wiser, better part, Which, in rough places helped to make me strong: And though my path was oft bereft of beauty, Still urged me on to fulfill ev'ry duty. O, happy childhood, bright with faith and hope; Enchantment dwells within thy rosy bowers, And rainbow tints gild all within thy scope; And youth sits lightly on a bed of flowers, His cup of happiness just brimming o'er, Unconscious of what life has yet in store. What glowing aspirations fill the mind-- Of noble work designed for man to do! What purity of purpose here we find-- What longing for the beautiful and true; Ere know we of the toil, and grief and woe; Or dream that men and women suffer so. Though all along life's toilsome, weary way, We meet with disappointments hard to bear; Yet strength is given equal to our day, And joy is of'nest mixed with pain or care; But let us not grow weary in well-doing, Still persevere, the upward path pursuing. Thus ever struggle on, 'mid doubts and fears; While changing scenes before our gaze unfold, Till, through the vista of long weary years, We see Heaven's sunshine thro' its gates of gold; And feel assured it is an answering token, Aye! though our earthly idols have been broken. Tho' those we've cherished most have been untrue, And fond and faithful ones have gone before, Still let us keep the promises in view, Of those who're pleading on "the other shore," Whose tender messages are with us yet, The words of love, we never can forget. And while we muse and ponder, shadows fall, And a sweet spirit whispers, "Peace, be still;" What of the past--'tis now beyond recall: The future, we with usefulness may fill. Yet sometime we shall find in regions real Those dreams fulfilled we only term ideal. MRS. ROMANIA B. PRATT, M. D.