200
ND can I better close these pages, fraughtWith dear remembrances, and many a thought
Of youth and home, of bright hours passed away,
And blessings still our own, than on this day,
Our Wedding Day! to wake for thee once more
Those "wood-notes wild" which thou hast loved of yore,
To let this finished volume end the same
As first it opened—with thine own loved name:
And worthless though these early strains may be
To all besides, (yet not, I trust, to thee!)
To fondly ask, that thou wilt hold them dear,
For sake of her, whose hand has traced them here?
Oh! who can tell, how many a dream of youth,
How many a thought of tenderness and truth,
Of glowing hopes, of life's best morning hours,—
The breath of Spring,—the scent of early flowers,
Linger enshrined in these untutored lays,
The faithful record of those bygone days!
Here, early friendships live in all their truth;
Here, later hours reflect the glow of youth;
And deeper feelings, yearnings all must feel,
For something more than earth can e'er reveal,
Here murmur like the Spirit's fluttering wings,
Her feeble strivings for immortal things.
How many a thought of tenderness and truth,
Of glowing hopes, of life's best morning hours,—
The breath of Spring,—the scent of early flowers,
Linger enshrined in these untutored lays,
The faithful record of those bygone days!
Here, early friendships live in all their truth;
Here, later hours reflect the glow of youth;
And deeper feelings, yearnings all must feel,
For something more than earth can e'er reveal,
Here murmur like the Spirit's fluttering wings,
Her feeble strivings for immortal things.
