Then the quiltings and the dances-- How my feet were wont to fly, While the moon peeped through the barn chinks From her stately place on high. Oh, those days, so sweet, so happy, Ever backward o'er me roll; Still the music of that farm life Rings an echo in my soul. Now the old place is deserted, And the walls are falling down; All who made the home life cheerful, Now have died or moved to town. But about that dear old cottage Shall my mem'ries ever cling, For 'twas there I spent the moments Of my, youth,--life's happy spring. ON THE DEATH OF W. C. Thou arrant robber, Death! Couldst thou not find Some lesser one than he To rob of breath,-- Some poorer mind Thy prey to be? His mind was like the sky,-- As pure and free; His heart was broad and open As the sea. His soul shone purely through his face, And Love made him her dwelling place. Not less the scholar than the friend, Not less a friend than man; The manly life did shorter end Because so broad it ran. Weep not for him, unhappy Muse! His merits found a grander use Some other-where. God wisely sees The place that needs his qualities. Weep not for him, for when Death lowers O'er youth's ambrosia-scented bowers He only plucks the choicest flowers. AN OLD MEMORY How sweet the music sounded That summer long ago, When you were by my side, love, To list its gentle flow. I saw your eyes a-shining, I felt your rippling hair, I kissed your pearly cheek, love, And had no thought of care. And gay or sad the music, With subtle charm replete; I found in after years, love 'Twas you that made it sweet. For standing where we heard it, I hear again the strain; It wakes my heart, but thrills it With sad, mysterious pain. It pulses not so joyous As when you stood with me, And hand in hand we listened To that low melody. Oh, could the years turn back, love! Oh, could events be changed To what they were that time, love, Before we were estranged; Wert thou once more a maiden Whose smile was gold to me; Were I once more the lover Whose word was life to thee,-- O God! could all be altered, The pain, the grief, the strife, And wert thou--as thou shouldst be-- My true and loyal wife! But all my tears are idle, And all my wishes vain. What once you were to me, love, You may not be again. For I, alas! like others, Have missed my dearest aim. I asked for love. Oh, mockery! Fate comes to me with fame! A CAREER