Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/204

Into the gayest heart, that trusts itself
To ruminate amid these buried wrecks
Of princely splendor and baronial pomp.
Methinks the spirit of true wisdom loves
To haunt such musing shades. The taller plants
Sigh to the lowly ones, and they again
Give lessons to the grass, and now and then
Shake a sweet dewdrop on it, to reward
Its docile temper; while each leaf imprints
Its tender moral on the passer-by,—
"Ye all, like us, must fade."
                                      Here comes a bee,
From yon forsaken bower, as if to watch
Our piracies upon her honey-cups,
Perchance, with sting to guard them. Light of wing!
Hast e'er a hive amid those tangled boughs?
We'll not invade thy secrecy, nor thin
Thy scanty hoard of flowers. Let them bloom on;
Why should we rob the desert of a gem,
Which God hath set, to help its poverty?

It seems like an illusion still, to say,
I've been at Kenilworth. But yet' t is true.
And when once more I reach my pleasant home,
In Yankee land, should conversation flag
Among us ladies, though it seldom does,
When of our children, and our housekeeping,
And help we speak, yet should there be a pause,
I will bethink me in that time of need