Mountain idylls, and Other Poems | Page 9

conclusions, reasoned o'er
and o'er,
We know Thou dost exist! Can we know more?
Shall Love, as the Bridal Wreath, Whither and Die?
Shall love as the bridal wreath, wither and die?
Or remain ever
constant and sure,
As the years of the future pass rapidly by,
And
the waves of adversity's tempest roll high,
Ever changeless and
fervent endure?

Mistake not the fancy, that lasts but a day,
For the love which
eternally thrives;
That sentiment false, is as prone to decay
As the
wreath is to fade and to wither away;
And like it, it never revives.
Shall Our Memories Live When the Sod Rolls Above Us?
Shall our memories live, when the sod rolls above us
And marks our
last home with a mouldering heap?
Shall the voices of those who
profess that they love us
E'er mention our names, as we dreamlessly
sleep?
Will their eyes ever dim at some fond recollection,
Or their hands
ever plant a small flower o'er the breast, Or will they gaze with a sad
circumspection
At the tablets, which tell of our last solemn rest?
Ah! soon shall the hearts which our memories cherish
Forget, as they
strive with the cares of their own;
And even the last dim
remembrance shall perish
As we peacefully slumber, unwept and
unknown.
But if our lives, though of transient duration,
Are filled with some
work in humanity's name,
Some uplifting effort, or self-immolation,

Our memories shall live in the temples of Fame.
A Reverie.
O, tomb of the past
Where buried hopes lie,
In my visions I see

Thy phantoms pass by!
A form, long departed,
Before me appears;

A sweet voice, long silent,
Again greets my ears.
Fond memory dwells
On the things that have been;
And my eyes
calmly gaze
On a long vanished scene;
A scene such as memory

Stores deep in the breast,
Which only appears
In a season of rest.
Once more we wander,
Her fair hand in mine;
Once more her

promise,
"I'll ever be thine";
Once more the parting,
The shroud,
and the pall,
The sods' hollow thump
As they coffinward fall.
The reverie ends--
All the fancies have flown;
And my sad, lonely
heart,
Now seems doubly alone;
As the Ivy, whose tendrils
Reach
longingly out,
Yet finds not an oak
To entwine them about.
Love's Plea.
I love thee, my darling, both now and forever,
My heart feels the
thralldom of love's mystic spell,
'Tis fettered with shackles which
nothing can sever,
To the heart which responds to its passionate
swell.
I love thee, my darling, with love that is stronger,
Than all the fond
ties which the heart holds enshrined;
Adversity, sorrow or pain can
no longer
Detract from this heart, if with thine intertwined.
I love thee, my darling, with sacred affection,
Which death, nor the
cycles of time shall efface;
Nor from my heart's mirror, erase thy
reflection,
Nor tear thy fond heart from its fervent embrace.
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.
Is there a Death? The light of day
At eventide shall fade away;

From out the sod's eternal gloom
The flowers, in their season, bloom;

Bud, bloom and fade, and soon the spot
Whereon they flourished
knows them not;
Blighted by chill, autumnal frost;
"Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust!"
Is there a Death? Pale forms of men
To formless clay resolve again;

Sarcophagus of graven stone,
Nor solitary grave, unknown,

Mausoleum, or funeral urn,
No answer to our cries return;
Nor
silent lips disclose their trust;
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

Is there a Death? All forms of clay
Successively shall pass away;

But, as the joyous days of spring
Witness the glad awakening
Of
nature's forces, may not men,
In some due season, rise again?
Then
why this calm, inherent trust,
"If ashes to ashes, dust to dust?"
Despair.
Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
When vanishes each prospect
fair,
When the last flickering ray has sped,
And naught remains but
mute despair;
When inky blackness doth enshroud
The hopes the
heart once held in store,
As some tall pine, by great winds bowed,

Doth snap, and when the tempest's o'er,
Its noble form, magnificent
and proud,
Doth prostrate lie, nor ever riseth more;
Thus breaks the
heart, which sees no hope before.
Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
That heart is as some ruin old,

With ancient arch and wall, o'erspread
With moss, and desolating
mold;
Whose banquet halls, where once the sound
Of revelry rang
unconfined,
Now, with the hoot of owls resound,
Or echo back the
mournful wind;
In whose foul nooks the gruesome bat is found.
The
heart a ruin is, when unresigned;
No hope before, and but regret
behind.
[Illustration:
"Its noble form magnificent and proud,
Doth prostrate
lie, nor ever riseth more."
IRONTON PARK, OURAY COUNTY, COLORADO.]
Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
That heart, to fate
unreconciled,
Though throbbing, is as truly dead
As though by foul
decay defiled;
That heart is as a grinning skull,
With smiling
mockery, and stare
Of eyeless sockets, or the hull
Of shipwrecked
vessel, bleached and bare,
Derelict, morbid, apathetic, dull,
As
drowning men, who clutch the empty air,
The heart goes down,
which feels but blind despair.

Hidden Sorrows.
For some the river of life would seem
Free from the shallow, the reef,
or bar,
As they gently glide down the silvery stream
With scarcely a
ripple, a lurch, or jar;
But under