MY JOURNAL. T is a dreary evening; The shadows rise and fall : With strange and ghostly changes, They flicker on the wall. Make the charred logs burn brighter; The half-forgotten record Of bygone things and days. Bring here the ancient volume; The dust has gathered on it— To read what Time has written K Look at the first fair pages; Yes I remember all: The joys now seem so trivial, Let us read the dreams of glory And see how soon they fade. Here, where still waiting, dreaming, For some ideal Life, The young heart all unconscious Had entered on the strife. See how this page is blotted: What could those tears be mine? How coolly I can read you, Each blurred and trembling line. Now I can reason calmly, And looking back again, Can see divinest meaning Threading each separate pain. Here strong resolve-how broken, Nay-I will turn the pages To where the tale is told Of how a dawn diviner Flushed the dark clouds with gold. And see, that light has gilded Here-well, it does not matter, I know not why I falter, Or why my tears should fall; You see each grief is noted; I can rejoice to-day-the pain Was over, long ago. I read-my voice is failing, But you can understand How the heart beat that guided This weak and trembling hand. Pass over that long struggle, Read where the comfort came, Where the first time is written Within the book your name. Again it comes, and oftener So all the rest-you know it: And put aside the record Of bygone hours of pain. The dust shall gather on it, I will not read it more: Give me your hand—what was it We were talking of before? I know not why-but tell me A CHAIN. HE bond that links our souls together As the long hours pass away? Will it stretch if Fate divide us, When dark and weary hours have tried us? Oh, if it look too poor and slight Let us break the links to-night! It was not forged by mortal hands, The slender link can recognise : |