1850-60.] MARY E. NEALY. 479 Like the rainbow, beaming a moment here, Then melting away to its native sphere ; Like rose leaves, loosed by the zephyr's sigh — Like that zephyr wafting its perfume by — Like the wave that kisses some grateful spot, Then passes away — yet is ne'er forgot ; If your life hopes like these have never Med, Then ye cannot know of the tears I shed. Ye cannot know what a little thing From memory's silent fount can bring The voice and form that were once so dear. Yet there are hearts, were they only here, That could feel with me when, all wet with dew, I found it this morning — this little shoe. THE STARS. Sweet "islands of the bless'd! " They dreamed in the olden time. That away, far away in the distant West, Was a land where the weary soal might rest. Where love and joy, by the hours ca- ress'd. To the sunlit waves made rhyme : Where the fields were ever green. And the bright flowers did not die, And where, all day long, 'neath the eme- rald sheen Of breezy forests, with meads between. And where bird-songs gushed from each leafy screen. The world-worn soul might lie : And where in the dreamy eve They might sail in a pearly boat, And tales of bright enchantment weave Of a land whose promise they could be- lieve. And where never a sound the heart to grieve O'er the coral dells might float. For sorrow was all unknown And dark death's ghastly fears ; And no yearning spirit walked forth — alone ! Bewailing its fate like the sad QEnone,* Filling earth and air with its bitter moan, And the heart with its unshed tears ! But ever, the whole day long, 'Neath the morning's warm, bright kiss. Or the gentle night-bird's love-toned song. The soul was full and feared no wrong ; For it needed not hope to bear it along To a day of moi'e perfect bliss. And I think those Western isles Are the gems in our Western sky; For naught in our earth so sweetly smiles, Or if, for a time some charm beguiles, The sad soul, sick of her changing wiles, Looks up — for the Pure and High. And now, as I gaze to-night On those blessed stars above, I cannot think such a soft, sweet light Is shed from a land where the mildew blight Warns them, e'en at the dawning, to dread the flight Of their brightest dreams of love. It surely cannot be — A light so fair and pure ! Like an islet of gold in a sapphire sea, There's one that twinkles and says to me,
- The author is aware that in Greek words, all the vow-
els are pronounced distinctly ; but this would slide in as it is .'
