OH THINK NOT THAT THE

DREAM IS PAST!

BY JOHN B. L. SOULE.

ОH THINK not that the dream is past

Of scenes when fondest hopes were cherished; Though but the shadow now may last Of each bright hope forever perished.

I know that fortune hath decreed

These hearts shall never be united; I know that mine alone must bleed, That mine alone was truly plighted.

Although the strain which now I

pour

In plaintive sadness, ne'er may reach thee; Although this tongue shall never more

Of deathless love essay to teach thee,

OH THINK NOT THAT THE DREAM IS PAST. 117

Yet it is well-I would not mar

The new-born pleasures that surround thee, Nor on my lonely harp shall jar

One note of memory to wound thee!

But deem not that this heart is cold,
Though this should be its latest token,
Of love which words have never told,
Of vows which never can be broken.

Where'er

my

feet are doomed to stray

By hopes allured, or sorrows driven,

I'll turn from other scenes away

To love thee, faithless, but forgiven !

SONNET.

TO A BURGUNDY ROSE, PRESENTED THE AUTHOR BY

A LADY.

BY HENRY J. GARDNER.

FAIREST of flowers, by fairest lady given !
Thine only fault that thou wilt quickly fade,―
Though early plucked, yet blessed to be riven
From thine own stem, and on her bosom laid,
Like as a pearl in gold, a star in heaven!
Oh! I would dream were I not half afraid,-
That she in some thought-wildered happy hour,
Erst-while ere thou wert given me, fair flower,
A kiss perchance may have impressed on thee.
And I would dream that some mysterious power
Had kept the blessing in those leaves, for me!
So would I ply thee with a venturous lip,
The nectar of that hidden thing to sip,-

And dream the while of rose-lipped loveliness and thee!

WHAT WOULD YE ASK?

BY GEORGE W. LAMB.

WHAT Would ye ask-a restless strife of soul
For wealth, or fame, or aught beneath the sun?
Alas! man's life is short to have such goal,

And what is human glory when 'tis won!

The grave receiveth all. The hero's crown
And poet's laurels crumble into dust;

Soon are their names forgot, though long renown
And deathless honor was their fondest trust.

The eye grows dim and youthful fire burns low,

The strong limbs bend, the once warm heart grows

cold;

Yet onward still this toiling world doth go,

As if man ne'er should lay beneath the mould.

Bend to your task, ye who amid the clash

And clang of life's hard strugglings win your way, Strive on unceasing, though the bitter lash

Of hopes all blighted smite your hearts each day.

Press on untiring 'mid the jostling crowd,

Heed not the weak ones crushed beneath your

tread,

Think not upon the coming pall and shroud

And narrow grave-your home when life has fled.

And this ye say is happiness, and tell

Of ends attained and high ambition crowned!
Ye cannot hear how oft is rung a knell
Where doth one shout of victory resound.

Ye reck not of the withering, wasting heart,
The life-long toil unblessed by fortune's smile,
The sickening grief that bids the life depart,

And the dark woe no soothing can beguile.

Triumphant notes are ringing in your ears,

Ye list not when is struck a mournful strain, Though round ye blight, decay, and hurrying years, And mouldering dust, tell how 'tis all in vain.