THE ISLE OF LONG-AGO. H. a wonderful stream is the river of Time As it runs through the realm of tears There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow; There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so! There are trinkets and tresses of hair; There are fragments of songs that nobody sings. And a part of an infant's prayer; There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear; There are hands that are waved when the fairy-shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, When the wind down the river is fair. LOST AND FOUND. OME miners were sinking a Calm as a monarch upon his throne, I know not where, but the He sat there taking his rest, alone. A chink in my brain, while other tales Have been swept away, as, He must have been there for many a year: The dry and embalming air of the mine Who was he, then? No man could say And men tear in the dark at the earth's heart- Its memory, even, was passed away. core, |