The cottage by the brookside,
With its mossy roof is gone;--
The cattle have left the uplands,
The young lambs left the lawn;--
Gone are thy blue-eyed sister,
And thy brother's laughing brow;
And the beech-nuts He ungathered
On the lonely hill-side now.

What have the returning seasons
Brought to thy heart since then,
In thy long and weary wand'rings
In the paths of busy men?--
Has the Angel of grief, or of gladness,
Set his seal upon thy brow?
Maiden, joyous or tearful,
Where art thou gleaning now?




MEMORY-BELLS.


Up from the spirit-depths ringing,
Softly your melody swells,
Sweet as a seraphim's singing,
Tender-toned memory-bells!
The laughter of childhood,
The song of the wildwood,