The Souvenir.
I have a little souvenir, bestowed by infant hands,
Nor one would dream the spell it holds as on the shelf it stands;
It is a tiny mimic vase, so perfect and so chaste,
That fancy in some fairy hall ne'er fail to have it placed.
'Tis lily-shaped and lily-hued, embossed with gold and blue;
So small, one rose bent o'er its brim would hide it all from view;
Yet, yet 'tis memory's talisman—a world of vision lies
Within its small transparent cup, as on it rest mine eyes:
Nor one would dream the spell it holds as on the shelf it stands;
It is a tiny mimic vase, so perfect and so chaste,
That fancy in some fairy hall ne'er fail to have it placed.
'Tis lily-shaped and lily-hued, embossed with gold and blue;
So small, one rose bent o'er its brim would hide it all from view;
Yet, yet 'tis memory's talisman—a world of vision lies
Within its small transparent cup, as on it rest mine eyes:
For, towering o'er its tiny form, all bright with early dews,
A pyramid of meadow flowers display their varied hues;
And long as Fiora's fragrant gems the verdant turf adorn,
A bunch of aggregated bloom shall crown it, morn by morn.
Sweet is the task with blossoms fair my souvenir to fill,
And daily feel their spirit voice deep in my bosom thrill;
For, potent as a fairy's wand, the cluster, one by one,
Wakes up a hope, or memory, or duty to be done.
A pyramid of meadow flowers display their varied hues;
And long as Fiora's fragrant gems the verdant turf adorn,
A bunch of aggregated bloom shall crown it, morn by morn.
Sweet is the task with blossoms fair my souvenir to fill,
And daily feel their spirit voice deep in my bosom thrill;
For, potent as a fairy's wand, the cluster, one by one,
Wakes up a hope, or memory, or duty to be done.
The language, or the names of flowers as by the learned they're styled,
I know not—these my monitors are simple, bright, and wild;
No glass above or wall around their warmth or shadow cast,
They drink the rains, and meet the sun, and wrestle with the blast.
The whole wild sisterhood appears in single robe arrayed,
They live in meads, climb rocks and steeps, and nestle in the shade.
Such are toe fragrant whisperers who converse, counsel, guide,
And day by day with magic power fling memory's portals wide.
I know not—these my monitors are simple, bright, and wild;
No glass above or wall around their warmth or shadow cast,
They drink the rains, and meet the sun, and wrestle with the blast.
The whole wild sisterhood appears in single robe arrayed,
They live in meads, climb rocks and steeps, and nestle in the shade.
Such are toe fragrant whisperers who converse, counsel, guide,
And day by day with magic power fling memory's portals wide.
In front, a sprig bestudded o'er with bright blue stars appears,
"Forget me not" it seems to sigh, its soft eye fraught with tears;
It bloom'd upon a streamlet's verge which murmurs by our cot,
The burden of whose passing song would seem "Forget me not."
"Forget me not!" ah! many a tone steals through that gentle bloom,
The distant sigh it to my heart—it trembles from the tomb;
And years come back like yesterdays, with all that with them sped—
Ah, no! ye shall not be forgot, ye distant and ye dead!
"Forget me not" it seems to sigh, its soft eye fraught with tears;
It bloom'd upon a streamlet's verge which murmurs by our cot,
The burden of whose passing song would seem "Forget me not."
"Forget me not!" ah! many a tone steals through that gentle bloom,
The distant sigh it to my heart—it trembles from the tomb;
And years come back like yesterdays, with all that with them sped—
Ah, no! ye shall not be forgot, ye distant and ye dead!
And here, a beauteous trio blends all hearts must love to view,
Upon the river's sloping bank in starry groups they grew:
The buttercup, and daisy fair, the primrose wild and sweet,
With childhood's merry voices and young life's bright morn replete.
Yes! their's is still the whisper of a glad and careless time,
Of other summers' glorious bloom, and other meads in prime;
Oh! great and mighty is the spell, the memories deep and strong,
Which gush from out the tiny vase, and that frail, brilliant throng!
Upon the river's sloping bank in starry groups they grew:
The buttercup, and daisy fair, the primrose wild and sweet,
With childhood's merry voices and young life's bright morn replete.
Yes! their's is still the whisper of a glad and careless time,
Of other summers' glorious bloom, and other meads in prime;
Oh! great and mighty is the spell, the memories deep and strong,
Which gush from out the tiny vase, and that frail, brilliant throng!
The violet, too, and other gems of beauty and of grace,
Compose the bouquet, fresh and bright, which now surmounts my vase;
But e'en, ere eventide steals on, a blight o'er all shall pass:
Yet they in death are monitors, and teach "all flesh is grass."
The goodliness thereof as brief as that which erst we wore—
A sunny morn, a fleeting day, and man's life span is o'er;
The grass dries up, the flowret fades, the brightest sky 's o'ercast,—
Nought save the Word of God endures, or shall eternal last.
Compose the bouquet, fresh and bright, which now surmounts my vase;
But e'en, ere eventide steals on, a blight o'er all shall pass:
Yet they in death are monitors, and teach "all flesh is grass."
The goodliness thereof as brief as that which erst we wore—
A sunny morn, a fleeting day, and man's life span is o'er;
The grass dries up, the flowret fades, the brightest sky 's o'ercast,—
Nought save the Word of God endures, or shall eternal last.