A FRAGMENT.
The harp of the past echoes strangely to-night In low thrilling murmurs of sadness,It whispers of moments once joyous and bright, Of hours that flitted in gladness.I 'm sitting alone in the scenes of my youth, Where I first of love's witchery dreamed,The spot where I pledged to my lover my truth, And thought the world bright as it seemed.
This moment how well I remember the hour— How well I remember that night—I gave him my love in the form of a flower, A rose-bud so spotlessly white.He clasped it in silence, and with it the hand That gave him the delicate token,And murmured a prayer that our plighting should stand A monument ever unbroken.
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