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540 MARY L. LAWSON.

My father, how the tear-drop swells
As o'er the past my vision dwells;
When I have stood beside thy chair
And smooth'd and kiss'd thy silver hair,
Whose silken threads are dearer now
Than hope's gay dream or lover's vow,
For life can hold no joy for me
More cherish'd than my thoughts of thee.

And thou hast left a name behind
That Art must prize and Science find;
Thy talents to the world are known,
But dearer memories are my own.
Though all approve the stainless worth
That sleeps beneath this spot of earth,
The kindness that awakens love
Thy children's hearts alone can prove.

No gorgeous tomb in words proclaim
Thine honest truth and well-earn'd fame,
Nor sculptured urn, nor heartless praise,
The stranger's studied care betrays;
But thou wert fondly laid to rest 
Where tender tears thy grave have blest,
Embalm'd in feelings pure and high,
That soar from earth beyond the sky.

THE HAUNTED HEART.

'Tis true he ever lingers at her side,
But mark the wandering glances of his eye;
A lover near a fond and plighted bride,
With less of love than sorrow in his sigh!
And well is it for her, that gentle maid,
Who loves too well, too fervently, for fears;
She deems not her devotion is repaid
With deep repinings o'er life's early years.

MARY L. LAWSON. 541

For oft another's image fills his breast,
E'en when he breathes to her love's tender vow;
While her soft hand within his own is prest,
And timid blushes mantle her young brow,
Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past,
Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears;
In vain from out his soul he strives to cast
One shadowy form–the love of early years.

Ne'er form his heart the vision fades away;
Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone,
The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day,
Bring to his mind the happiness now flown;
A tone of song, the warbling of the birds,
The simplest thing that memory endears,
Can still recall the form, the voice, the words,
Of her, the best beloved of early years.

He dares not seek the spot where first they met,
Too dangerous for his only hope of rest,
His strong, but fruitless effort to forget
Those scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast;
And yet the quiet beauty of the grove
All plainly to his restless mind appears,
Where, as the sun declined, he loved to rove
With her, the first fond dream of early years.

He sees the stream beside whose bank they stray'd,
Engross'd in converse sweet of coming hours,
And watch'd the rippling currents as they play'd
In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers;
And the old willow, 'neath whose spreading shades
She own'd her love–again her voice he hears,
He starts–alas! the vision only fades
To leave regretful pangs for early years.
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Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 11:43:04 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 18:54:59 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-30 00:20:38