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518       E. JUSTINE BAYARD.

Was it eve dark'ning o'er the pleasant room
When the soft breezes of the summer night
Breathed through its atmosphere a faint perfume,
Or when the autumn's crimson fire-light
Glow'd upon every brow, thou still wert there,
Wreck of departed days, with many an air.

Joyous or sorrowful——profound or wild,
Swiftly thy sweeping chords gave out their tones,
Light as the laughter of a sinless child,
Deep as the anguish told in captive moans,
Smooth as the flow of rivers to the sea,
Irregular as dark insanity.

There have been hands that are beneath the mould
(I seem to feel their chillness in thy touch),
Eyes wept the while they moved, that now are cold
As this impassive metal——yet are such
The things that bind us nearest, move us most,
And leave a hopeless voice when they are lost.

Now, stranger hands across those keys will run,
And other walls far other groups surround,
And stranger eyes look lovingly upon
The unconscious mover of the realm of sound.
That realm, once sacred, my sweet home, to thee,
And sacred ever to my memory.

But thou, impassive thing, thus sever'd wide
From thy sole wealth in those harmonious waves,
Another empire be thine own beside:
Be thou the pass-key to the spirit caves,
Thou the deliverer of their captive throng,
The portal spirit of the gates of song.


     MARION H. RAND.

MISS RAND was born in Philadelphia, in 1824. She was the youngest daughter of Mr. B.H. Rand, a well-known teacher and author of penmanship in that city. When only eight years old, she began to prove her love for poetry, by practising rhymes; but it was not until she was fourteen, that any of them were published. The Young People's Book, edited at the time by John Frost, first welcomed them into printed life; and she has frequently contributed to the most popular periodicals of the day, exhibiting in all her effusions, tender feeling and pleasing thought. She died at Grahamville, S.C., on the 9th of June, 1849.

          SYMPATHY.

HIDE not thy secret grief
In the dark chambers of the soul,
Where sombre thoughts and fancies roll,
Bringing thee no relief.
Gloomy and cold the spirit grows,
While brooding over fancied woes:
The lightest care, while yet concealed,
Lies like a mountain on the breast;
The heaviest grief, when once revealed,
Is lulled by sympathy to rest.

Relive the bursting heart,
And pour into some loving ear
Each bitter thought, each chilling fear;
How soon will all depart!
And words of love, like healing balm,
Will gently soothe and sweetly calm,
                                     (519)

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-30 11:49:44 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-30 08:56:35