html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }THERE is a thought to Mem’ry dear,
That dwells my heart within;
There is no other mem’ry there
So pure and free from sin.
Yet hath it sorrows of its own,
That pure and precious thought,
That oft, when I have mus’d alone,
Tears to mine eyes have brought.
It calls an image of the Past,
A vision fair and bright,
So beautiful it could not last
Before the earthly sight.
I knew a maid in life’s first spring,
A sweeter none could know,
Her locks were like the raven’s wing,
Her brow was like the snow.
And ever, when she played or sang,
Sweet music filled the place,
She had a merry laugh that rang,
A bright and sunny face.
My pulse was calm, my heart was still,
At clasping of our hands,
Not such the eager wayward thrill,
That earthly love demands.
Perchance a different feeling sways
The fibres of the heart
Towards those, who from the wistful gaze
Are fated soon to part.
And yet in sooth I lov’d her well,
And she indeed was dear,
Though scarce I knew the mighty spell
That bound my soul to her.
But she is gone, and lowly laid
Under the springing grass—
O ne’er the mem’ry of the maid
Shall from my bosom pass!
But oft I’ll think upon her still,
And call her back in thought,
And strive to make her mem’ry fill,
The void her loss has wrought.