338 LEWIS J. CIST. [ISiU-oO. OLDEN MEMOMES. They are jewels of the mind ; They are tendrils of the heart, That with our being are entwined — Of our very selves a part. They the records are of youth, Kept to read in after-years ; They are manhood's well of truth, Filled with childhood's early tears. Like the low and plaintive moan Of the night-wind through the trees, Sweet to hear, though sad and lone. Are those Olden Memories ! Like the dim traditions, hoary. Of our loved and native clime ; Like some half-forgotten story, Read or heard in olden time ; Like the fresh'ning dew of even To the parched and drooping flower; Like peaceful thought of heaven, Li life's tempest-stricken hour ; Like the cadence of a song ; — Yet, oh ! sweeter far than these Are the thoughts that round us throng With those Olden Memories ! In the solitude of even, When the spirit, lone and dreary. Turns from earth away to heaven. As the refuge of the weary ; In the dreary twilight hour, When the world is calm and still. And light zephyrs fragrance shower Over dewy vale and hill, Oh ! then, sweeter than perfume Borne on aromatic breeze. To the softened spirit come Those dear Olden Memories ! In our days of mirth and gladness. We may spurn their faint control, But they come, in hours of sadness, Like sweet music to the soul ; And in sorrow, o'er us stealing With their gentleness and calm, They are leaves of precious healing, They are fruits of choicest balm. Ever till, when life departs, Death from dross the spirit frees. Cherish, in thine heart of hearts, All thine Olden Memories ! TO MY MOTHER. Mother ! they say to me, that thou Beginnest to grow old ; That time, in furrows on thy brow, Hath placed his impress cold. 'Tis so ! yet dost thou still appear As young and fair to me. As when an infant, mother, dear, I played upon thy knee! They tell me, mother, that thy cheek Hath lost that ruddy glow, Of which so oft I've heard those speak Who knew thee long ago. It may be so ! yet will I press That cheek with love as strong As when in childhood's first embrace, Upon thy neck I hung ! They tell me many a charm, once fair, Beginneth to decay ; That thy once glossy, raven hair Is turning fost to gray. Yet I each hoary tress revere. Each chai'm, by thee possessed, As fair to me doth still appear, As first my sight it blessed ! And yet I know 'tis even so. For time is hurrying on ; And lliose who live to bless us now, Alas ! will soon be gone.
