The American Library of Art, Literature and Song

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
shaft in Wales:

Calm as a monarch upon his throne,
Lips hard clenched, no shadow of fear,

I know not where, but the He sat there taking his rest, alone.
facts have filled

A chink in my brain, while

other tales

Have been swept away, as,
when pearls are spilled,
One pearl rolls into a chink
in the floor.
Somewhere, then, where
God's light is killed

He must have been there for many a year:
The spirit had fled, but there was its shrine,
In clothes of a century old, or near.

The dry and embalming air of the mine
Had arrested the natural hand of decay,
Nor faded the flesh nor dimmed a line.

Who was he, then? No man could say
When the passage had suddenly fallen in:

And men tear in the dark at the earth's heart- Its memory, even, was passed away.

core,

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