Classic Poem

R ECOLLECTIONS .—T O F. L.

I HAVE been dwelling on enchanted ground,
 Looking on thee, and dreaming of the past;
A spell of shrouded faces and lost sound
 Thou hast around me cast.

Sorrow and joy, thought within thought enshrined,
 Childhood and youth I have lived o'er again,
As one chance note unlinketh to the mind.
  The whole of a sweet strain.

Thus, with the truest love my heart has known,
 Thy kindred form so dearly blended seems,
Thine accents have an echo of the tone
  That haunts me in my dreams.

A thousand thrilling thoughts thou bring'st to me
 Of our old days of happiness on earth;
I tremble at thy smile, thy laughter free,
  Thy little words of mirth.

And I have mused until I seem'd to stray,
 With thee and others, down a twilight glade,
Where sweet pale faces gleam'd upon our way,
  And silver voices pray'd.

Shadows, and smiles, and gifted words were there,
 It was the dream-land of our by-gone hours,
Just on the verge methought grew fresh and fair,
  Two rathe and sunny flowers.

Pure balmy germs they grew within their shells,
 Two cherish'd things, love-tended night and day,
With blue eyes peeping from their silver bells,
  And breath as sweet as May.

There was a spirit with us in the grove—
 I saw her linger where the first flower grew,
Breathe o'er it gently words of hope and love,
  And leave it bathed in dew.

Now from thy presence, and its soothing power,
 From voice, and look, and day-dream of the heart,
From balmy breath of childhood's opening flower,
  Dear one, I must depart.

Go thou unto thy gleeful nursery,
 Where voices mingle soft, and bright eyes gleam,
And when thy fair-hair'd children climb thy knee,
  Read thou my parting dream.

ADDED FOR C. L.

He said he was forgotten in the strain,
 When we roam'd through that love-enchanted spot,
As if there could be, of thy joy or pain,
  A dream where he was not.

As if her sainted lips had ever pray'd,
 Or her eyes fill'd for thee in thankfulness,
Nor blest his love true-hearted who had made
  Her darling's happiness.

In every swelling chord are many notes
 So closely blended, they seem all the same,
As, high and far, the glorious measure floats,—
  We do not ask their name.