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DREAMS OF LIFE.
OA! there is a dream of early youth,
And it never comes again;
That fits across the brain;
So wild, so warm, so new,
That early dream we rue.
Oh! there is a dream of maturer years,
More turbulent by far! 'Tis a vision of blood, and of woman's tears,
For the theme of that dream is war;
And shout in the battle array,
That vanisheth away.
Oh! there is a drcam of hoary age,
'Tis a vision of gold in store-
To be counted o'er and o'er ;
As a refuge from grief and pain,
Where the wealth of the world is vain.
And is it thus, from man's birth to his grave
In the path which all are treading ? Is there nought in that long career to save
From remorse and self-upbraiding?
That the being to whom it is given,
MEMORY. A PEN—to register; a key
That winds through secret wards,
By allegoric bards.
A pencil to her hand;
Outstrips the heart's demand;
Or lingering care subdues,
And clothes in brighter hues.
Those spectres to dilate,
Within her lonely seat.
In purity were such,
Should fear that pencil's touch!
Retirement then 'might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene,
Contented and serene :
With heart as calm as lakes that sleep
In frosty moonlight glistening;
BEAUTY IN AGE.
Youth hath its beauty, lip and smile,
And cheek of roseate ray;
Then feeting fades away.
But age, with hoary wisdom crowned,
That waits its Father's will,
MRS. SIGOURNEY. SKETCH.
This day, Time winds the exhausted chain,