A FEW WORDS PREFATORY.

X

by the more worthy and accredited gatherers of the golden-hued harvests of Parnassus.

From these gleanings (scattered freely from time to time, as gathered-the weeds with the flowers,) he has been led thus to attempt to cull a few of the latter, with the hope-vain and fruitless it may beof weaving them into a simple garland, with which to grace the brow of the young and growing literature of the West. Whether in this attempt-hastily determined, and entered upon with no previous preparation, and in the midst of other daily occupations, which gave but little opportunity for that thorough rejection of the weeds, and careful pruning of the flowers, so necessary to set off an indifferent boquet to advantage-more of the one than of the other shall appear to have been bound together in this simple wreath, it must be for others now to determine.

With thus much of preliminary, the author now casts his little garland upon the stream of popular favour, to sink or swim, as its own weight and the laws of gravity may determine."

CINCINNATI, OCTOBER 1845,

To One very Dear, with the Gift of a Bible

157

To the One Unforgotten

159

Rebecca to Bois-Guilbert

The Beaten Path

-

The Blind Girl to her Sister, absent from Home

161

162

166

Blanche

Kate

168

172

Lines impromptu, to a Young Lady on her Birth-Day

'174

The Spirit-Guardian

175

Ode and Dirge, for the Consecration of Spring-Grove Cemetery 180

TRIFLES IN VERSE.

OLDEN MEMORIES.

THEY are jewels of the mind;
They are tendrils of the heart,
That with being are entwined-
Of our very selves a part.
They the records are of youth,
Kept to read in after years;
They are manhood's well of truth,
Filled with childhood's early tears.
Like the low and plaintive moan

Of the night-wind through the trees,
Sweet to hear, though sad and lone,
Are those "Olden Memories!"

Like the dim traditions, hoary,
Of our loved and native clime;
Like some half-forgotten story,

Read or heard in olden time;
Like the fresh'ning dew of even

To the parched and drooping flower; Like the peaceful thought of Heaven, In life's tempest-stricken hour; Like the cadence of a song;—

Yet, oh! sweeter far than these Are the thoughts that round us throng With those "Olden Memories !"

In the solitude of even,

When the spirit, lone and dreary, Turns from Earth away, to Heaven, As the refuge of the weary;

In the dreamy twilight hour,

When the world is calm and still, And light zephyrs fragrance shower

Over dewy vale and hill,

Oh! then, sweeter than perfume

Borne on aromatic breeze,

To the softened spirit come

Those dear "Olden Memories !"