257
NICOLAS TOKE.
FROM HIS MOST AFFECTIONATE WIFE.
AIR spreads the unstained page before me now;No thought recorded stains its virgin snow,
No dream of hope, no memory warm and dear,
Has yet awoke to find a being here,—
But all lies passive, till the magic mind
Bids the blank page a living utterance find.
And say, what untried music, what new theme,
To grace the opening volume best may seem,
And o'er its first page hopeful radiance cast;—
Oh! who can tell if ever reached the last?
Nay, Dearest, no new theme, no untried strain,
Shall be the first to wake my harp again;
But thy loved name the key-note still must be,
To touch the slumbering chords of harmony,
And all the varied notes that round it ring.
Must mingle still with that one master string.
To grace the opening volume best may seem,
And o'er its first page hopeful radiance cast;—
Oh! who can tell if ever reached the last?
Nay, Dearest, no new theme, no untried strain,
Shall be the first to wake my harp again;
But thy loved name the key-note still must be,
To touch the slumbering chords of harmony,
And all the varied notes that round it ring.
Must mingle still with that one master string.
The hues of Autumn, deepening round us fast,
Proclaim that now the warm bright days are past,
Proclaim that now the warm bright days are past,
