While, in a motherly, sweet strain,
She sings me gently back again

To by-gone feelings, until they

Seem children born of yesterday.

11.

Yes, many a story of past hours
I read in those dear withered flowers,
And once again I seem to be

Lying beneath the old oak tree,
And looking up into the sky

Through thick leaves rifted fitfully,
Lulled by the rustling of the vine,

Or the faint low of far-off kine;

And once again I seem

To watch the whirling bubbles flee, Through shade and gleam alternately, Down the vine-bowered stream;

Or 'neath the odorous linden trees,

When summer twilight lingers long,

To hear the flowing of the breeze

And unseen insects' slumberous song,

That mingle into one and seem

Like dim murmurs of a dream;

Fair faces, too, I seem to see,

Smiling from pleasant eyes at me,

And voices sweet I hear,

That, like remembered melody,

Flow through my spirit's ear.

III.

A poem every flower is,

And every leaf a line,

And with delicious memories

They fill this heart of mine:

No living blossoms are so dear

As these dead relics treasured here;
One tells of love, of friendship one,
Love's quiet after-sunset time,
When the all-dazzling light is gone,

And, with the soul's low vesper-chime,

O'er half its heaven doth out-flow

A holy calm and steady glow.

Some are gay feast-songs, some are dirges,
In some a joy with sorrow merges;

One sings the shadowed woods, and one the roar
Of ocean's everlasting surges,

Tumbling upon the beach's hard-beat floor,
Or sliding backward from the shore

To meet the landward waves, and slowly plunge

once more.

O flowers of grace, I bless ye all

By the dear faces ye recall!

IV.

Upon the banks of Life's deep streams

Full many a flower groweth,

Which with a wondrous fragrance teems,

And in the silent water gleams,

And trembles as the water floweth.

Many a one the wave upteareth,

Washing ever the roots away,

And far upon its bosom beareth,

To bloom no more in Youth's glad May; As farther on the river runs,

Flowing more deep and strong,

Only a few pale, scattered ones
Are seen the dreary banks along;
And, where those flowers do not grow,

The river floweth dark and chill,

Its voice is sad, and with its flow
Mingles ever a sense of ill;

Then, Poet, thou who gather dost
Of Life's blest flowers the brightest,
O, take good heed they be not lost

While with the angry flood thou fightest!

V.

In the cool grottoes of the soul, Whence flows thought's crystal river,

Whence songs of joy for ever roll

To Him who is the Giver,

There store thou them, where fresh and green Their leaves and blossoms may be seen,

A spring of joy that faileth never;

There store thou them, and they shall be
A blessing and a peace to thee,
And in their youth and purity

Thou shalt be young for ever!

Then, with their fragrance rich and rare,

Thy living shall be rife,

Strength shall be thine thy cross to bear,
And they shall be a chaplet fair,

Breathing a pure and holy air,

To crown thy holy life.

VI.

O Poet! above all men blest,

Take heed that thus thou store them;
Love, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest,
Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest!)
Watchfully brooding o'er them.