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THE PAINS OF MEMORY.
WHEN Joy its fairest flowers hath shed, And even Hope's blossoms too are dead, Though Memory through the cloud of woe A momentary gleam may throw;
'Tis but an ignis fatuus light,-
THE SOUL THAT WAS SHROUDED.
The soul that was shrouded in sorrow's dark night
Ah ! why did that beam only shine to beguile,-
The light is gone by—and the music is o'er,
WHAT NEED OF YEARS-LONG YEARS TO PROVE?
What need of years, long years to prove
In youthful hearts of kindred mould,
It is but lifeless perishable stuff
weep not so, thy darling is not dead, His sinless soul is cleaving now yon sky's empurpled
bed; His spirit drinks new life and light 'mid bowers of
endless bloom; It is but perishable stuff that moulders in the tomb.