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A FEW WORDS PREFATOR Y.
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 be of 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.
TRIFLES IN VERSE.
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,
Over dewy vale and hill,
Borne on aromatic breeze,
Those dear - Olden Memories !"