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376         MARY N. M'DONALD.

Or perchance the music of thy laugh
Hath a bewildering flow-
Yet I cannot tell, my Lizzie,
If it be thy laugh or no;
For mirth as musical as thine
Hath met my ear before,
But its memory faded from my heart
When once the strain was o'er.

Oh! for the wand of fairy
To dissolve the withering spell,
And teach me, dearest Lizzie,
What it is I love so well.
Thy simplest truth and earnestness,
Perchance it may be this,
Or the gentle kindness breathing
In thy morn or evening kiss-
Thy care for others' weal or wo,
Thy quickly springing tears-
Or, at times, a quiet thoughtfulness,
Unmeet for thy brief years.

Well, be it either look or tone,
Or smile, or soft caress,
I know not, Lizzie, yet I feel
I could not love thee less.
And something happy there may be,
"Like light within a vase,"
Which, from the soul-depths gleaming forth,
Flings o'er thee such a grace.
Perchance, the hidden charm I seek,
That words may not impart,
Is but the warm affections
Of a kind and loving heart.


MARY N. M'DONALD.         377

THE SPELLS OF MEMORY.

It was but the note of a summer bird,
But a dream of the past in my heart it stirr'd,
And wafted me far to a breezy spot,
Where blossom'd the blue forget-me-not.
And the broad green boughs gave a checker'd gleam
To the dancing waves of a mountain stream,
And there, in the heat of a summer day,
Again on the velvet turf I lay,
And saw bright shapes in the floating clouds,
And rear'd fair domes, 'mid their fleecy shrouds,
As I look'd aloft to the azure sky,
And long'd for a bird's soft plumes to fly,
Till lost in its depths of purity.
Alas! I have walked from that early dream,
Far, far away is the mountain stream.
And the dewy turf, where so oft I lay,
And the woodland flowers, they are far away.
And the skies that once were to me so blue,
Now bend above with a darker hue,
And yet I may wander in fancy back
At memory's call to my childhood's track:
And the fount of thought hath been deeply stirr'd
By the passing note of a summer bird.

It was but the rush of the autumn wind,
But it left a spell of the past behind,
And I was abroad with my brothers twain
In the tangled paths of the wood again:
Where the leaves were rustling beneath our feet,
And the merry shout of our gleesome mood
Was echoed far in the solitude,
As we caught the prize which a kindly breeze
Sent down in a shower from the chestnut trees.
32*

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 16:57:00