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;
I will show you, by their blaze,

The half-forgotten record

Of bygone things and days.

Bring here the ancient volume;
The clasp is old and worn,
The gold is dim and tarnished,
And the faded leaves are torn.

The dust has gathered on it—
There are so few who care

To read what Time has written
Of joy and sorrow there.

K

Look at the first fair pages;

Yes I remember all:

The joys now seem so trivial,
The griefs so poor and small.

Let us read the dreams of glory
That childish fancy made;
Turn to the next few pages,

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,
Rash hope, and foolish fear,
And prayers, which God in pity
Refused to grant or hear.

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
The story-nor shall set,
And, though in mist and shadow,
You know I see it yet.

Here-well, it does not matter,
I promised to read all;

I know not why I falter,

Or why my tears should fall;

You see each grief is noted;
Yet it was better so-

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
Linked, as it now must be,
With all the joy or sorrow
That Life may bring to me.

So all the rest-you know it:
Now shut the clasp again,

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
Of something gay and bright.
It is strange my heart is heavy,
And my eyes are dim to-night.

A CHAIN.

HE bond that links our souls together
Will it last through stormy weather?
Will it moulder and decay

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,
Or clasped with golden bars and bands;
Save thine and mine, no other eyes

The slender link can recognise :