My own! though the years in the gloom of their sadness
Stand, frowning, 'tween me and the light of my star,
And memory can feel the wild might of loves madness,
Or scoff as rude Time its first sweetness would mar.

Again, by the banks where Moyola is flowing
We stray as the moonbeams smile sweet through the dell

Unheeded the moments, unmarked in their going,
Nor dreamed we of woe in the sound of "farewell."

Is it lost--all the light of the fair morning vision?
Is spirit to spirit unanswering, cold?
No, it never shall die, while in memory's Elysian
It lingers in beauty and brightness untold.

Love is love, and though Fate blasts our hope vines may sever
From the stay which their tendrils in fondness entwine
Yet the past of our joy we must cherish forever
And spirit meet spirit at memory's shrine.




A MEMORY.


"Indulgent Memory wakes, and, lo! they live!"
--RODGERS