Perish each record that might wake a thought
That would be treason to a faith like this!--
Why should the spectres of past joys be brought
To fling their shadows o'er my present bliss!

Yet,--ere we part for ever,--let me pay
A last, fond tribute to the sainted dead:
Mourn o'er these wrecks of passion's earlier day,
With tears as wild as once I used to shed.

What gentle words are flashing on my eye!
What tender truths in every line I trace!
Confessions--penned with many a deep drawn sigh.--
Hopes--like the dove--with but one resting place!

How many a feeling, long--too long--represt,
Like autumn flowers, here opened out at last!
How many a vision of the lonely breast
Its cherish'd radiance on these leaves hath cast?

And ye, pale violets, whose sweet breath hath driven
Back on my soul the dreams I fain would quell;
To whose faint perfume such wild power is given,
To call up visions--only loved too well;--

Ye too must perish!--Wherefore now divide
Tributes of love--first offerings of the heart;--
Gifts--that so long have slumbered side by side;
Tokens of feeling--never meant to part!