The past she ruleth. At her touch
Its temple-valves unfold,
And from their gorgeous shrines descend
The mighty men of old:
At her deep voice the dead reply,
Dry bones are cloth'd and live,—
Long perished garlands bloom anew,
And buried joys revive.
When o'er the future, many a shade
Of saddening twilight steals,
Or dimm'd present to the soul,
Its emptiness reveals,
She opes her casket, and a cloud
Of cheering perfume streams,
Till with a lifted heart we tread
The pleasant land of dreams.
Make friends of potent memory,
Oh! young man in thy prime,
And with her jewels bright and rare,
Enrich the board of Time;
Yet if thou mockest her with weeds,
A trifler 'mid her bowers,
She'll send a poison through thy veins,
In life's disastrous hours.
Make friends of potent Memory,
Oh! maiden, in thy bloom,
And bind her to thine inmost heart,
Before the days of gloom;
For sorrow softeneth into joy
Beneath her wand sublime,
And she immortal robes can weave
From the frail threads of Time.
Hartford.
L. H. S.