Memory (Sigourney)

The past she ruleth. At her touchIts temple-valves unfold,And from their gorgeous shrines descendThe mighty men of old:At her deep voice the dead reply,Dry bones are cloth'd and live,—Long perished garlands bloom anew,And buried joys revive.

When o'er the future, many a shadeOf saddening twilight steals,Or dimm'd present to the soul,Its emptiness reveals,She opes her casket, and a cloudOf cheering perfume streams,Till with a lifted heart we treadThe pleasant land of dreams.

Make friends of potent memory,Oh! young man in thy prime,And with her jewels bright and rare,Enrich the board of Time;Yet if thou mockest her with weeds,A trifler 'mid her bowers,She'll send a poison through thy veins,In life's disastrous hours.

Make friends of potent Memory,Oh! maiden, in thy bloom,And bind her to thine inmost heart,Before the days of gloom;For sorrow softeneth into joyBeneath her wand sublime,And she immortal robes can weaveFrom the frail threads of Time.

Hartford.L. H. S.