ST. THOMAS'S DAY.
eye—thou who hast learnt this lesson more sternly than even I, and speakest so well of all things ! Many a " Winter's Tale" have we two read together (Shakspeare's among the rest—and how often!)—and many a written lay has linked our thoughts in a sympathy of sentiment, on many an evening of Christmas. It may be that on some night of that which is approaching, these lines may meet thy notice,—and through them, one more winter's eve may, yet, be spent by thee and me, in a communion of thought and feeling. No fear that joy should carry it all, with us! No danger that the ghosts of the past should fail to mingle with our Christmas feelings, in that hour! There can be no future hope built up for thee or me,—or for most others who have passed the first season of youth—to which something shall not be wanting; —which shall not, like the houses of the Jews, be left imperfect in some part; and for the same reason,—even for the memories of the ruined past!—
Farewell!—I do not bid thee weep,—
The hoarded love of many years,
The visions hearts like thine must keep,
May not be told by tears !
No ! tears are but the spirit's showers,
To wash its lighter clouds away,
In breasts where sun-bows, like the flowers,
Are born pf rain and ray;
But gone from thine is all the glow
That helped to form life's promise-bow!
Farewell!—I know that never more
Thy spirit, like the bird of day,
Upon its own sweet song, shall soar
Along a sunny way!—
The hour that wakes the waterfall
To music, in its far-off flight,
And hears the silver fountains call,
Like angels through the night,
Shall bring thee songs whose tones are sighs,
From harps whose chords are memories !
Night!—when, like perfumes that have slept, All day, within the wild-flower's heart, Steal out the thoughts the soul has kept In silence and apart; And voices we have pined to hear, 11