ble and omnipotent. It is this that makes the landscape of the by-gone time seem greener and fairer to the eye than any we now gaze upon; this that makes the very echo of the olden song come back upon the ear with a thrilling luxury of sound with which no strain of novelty is laden, and that invests the sweet phantasm of early love with a robe of holiness never appertaining to the new-formed tie. "Et l'on revient toujours, toujours St. Pierre says truly, "Our first affections are likewise the last. They accompany us through the events with which human life is variegated. They re-appear in old age, and then revive the sensibilities of childhood with still greater force than those of mature age." Seen through the visionary arcade of years, the haunts of our youth appear steeped in the hues of the rainbowin sunshine and loveliness, unsullied with the shades or the coldness of reality. Memory has turned alchymist, and all is transmuted into gold. Bound in beguiling spells, we rove through the enchanting vista, and return to recollection only to sigh, with heaviness, for "Auld lang syne!" Well, indeed, may the poetess exclaim Memory! mysterious power! what bringest thou not back on thy untiring wings? Joy and hope, and youth, and loveliness, the forms that are no more, and the dreams of confidence and love. Eyes pure as they are bright, and fond looks, sweet tones, and smiles of content, and tears without sorrow, soft and refreshing as the dew that lies on the green branch through the long hours of the night. The young love thee, but theirs is a precarious attachment; the present is for ever rising up to rival thy creations, when the morning of life is, what it was destined, the season of happiness; alas! for that youthhood which with glance reverted, finds pleasure only in the shades of the past; it is a tree untimely withered, a rose snapped ere it blooms, a *The Hon. Mrs. Norton. violet beaten down by chill rains. Thy worshippers, oh Memory! are the aged, the weary, and the heavy-laden; those venerable pilgrims who have trodden through the paths of this world, and turn to take a lingering retrospect of the way which they have journeyed. For these, the present can have but small value, the past and the future are to them the Alpha and Omega of their contemplations. The old man nestles by his warm hearth, or meditates in some sunny spot in his garden, and with folded hands, and head bent upon his breast, retraces "the days that are gone." His grand-children gambol before him-they chase the butterfly from the rose to the lily, from the lily to the ranunculus, and from the ranunculus through the hidden paths of the air-they laugh eagerly as they think of success, and passionately they weep when the flutterer, speeding zig-zag over the fence of sweet-briar, hurries to far distant fields. The joy and the grief of his descendants mingle with the musings of the old man, again he feels himself a child-a happy, careless, sportive child; and the smell of the flowers and of the mellow fruit, the humming of the bees, the wild harmony of the birds, the murmur of the little brook, the hushing of the trees, like the soft falling of waters, become sweeter to his senses. The daisy at his foot, the pet kitten rushing after the rolling ball, the grasshopper in the hedge with its shrill greeting, the balloon, the soap bubbles sailing through the air, all the little marvels and favourites, and playthings of infancy, claim an interest, once more, in his breast. And from the first scene, the old man goes, by rotation, through the whole, till he finds himself, at three score and ten, in his garden chair, mild and venerable, and purified from the jarring turmoil and anxieties of too-busy life. His brow is furrowed, perhaps with trials, and suffering, and care, as well as time, but still he gracefully wears "the blossoms of the grave," and, tranquilly, awaits the closing scene of mortality. From his reveries he looks up with a gladsome smile upon his features; a tear has, perchance, dimmed his vision, but it has passed away; it was a tribute to an awakened memory— for who shall look back upon many years with unmingled emotion? And to the captive and the exile, and the brokenhearted, thou art dear, oh! Memory! for thou bringest back the free limb, and the unfettered will; the flight of the eagle and the roe, the mountain solitude, the wide-waving wood, the valley, and the bright waters in its breast. The prisoner turns to thee in his cell, and the gyves are forgotten, and the barred lattice is unseen; and the exile gazes on thy scenery with a rapturous delight, and sits, once more, beneath the tree of his forefathers. Exquisite are thy delights, and bitter, too, thy pangs, oh! Memory, and of varied hues are the shadowy pictures which I now describe. PERIOD I. The Soldier; the Cemetery; the Funeral; the Two Letters. First of thy revelations, oh! mystic power! I behold a wide valley, covered with the rich vegetation of a tropical clime. Dark where all else is bright, a lofty cypress rises to the left; its head bends slowly in the breeze, and its swart foliage flutters upon the spray, like wood-birds trembling on the parent nest. In the background are the marble vestiges of an ancient mausoleum; the flowering betel wreathes them with fantastic tapestry, and a cluster of palm trees inclining over them, forms a canopy beneath which, in snowy vest and turban, slumbers a weary native. Groves of the cocoa-tree and banana occupy the distance, and beyond these may be traced a chain of stupendous mountains, whose summits seem to touch the skies. Stay-is there no immediate actor in the scene? A youth of gallant bearing stands beneath the cypress; golden hair plays upon temples, and slight mustachios curl above his mouth; his features are bold and handsome, and a blue and merry eye looks out upon the spectator; yet his glance is like that of the falcon, as, from time to time, it traverses the plain. The chord of memory vibrates-he draws a locket from his bosom-it is a miniature;—he gazes on it-he hurries it to his lips-the smile vanishes as a sunbeam from his face, and a tear glistening on his cheek, descends upon the unconscious crystal. The gloom of the dark tree flickers across his brow-I see no more-the picture changes, and memory beholds a place of graves. his Cypress and cedar fling gigantic shadows on the ground; the deepest verdure is opposed to the brightest blue, for, like a precious sapphire, the cloudless sky gleams through the interwoven boughs. All in this hallowed spot seems sacred to meditation, to stillness, and repose; "pale records of mortality," carved with many a christian text, arrest the eye;-fair flowers are blooming on the turf;-the rose, the lily, and the amaranth, the *The scene is not presumed to be in the island of Ceylon. tuberose, the jessamine, and the nilicia, pay soft tribute to the dead, and the cinnamon, the silver-blossomed almond-tree, and the starry jessamine, lavish their sweet incense on the air. Wreaths of the water-lotus, twined with dark leaves of emerald, hang from the low branches of the myrtle; insects brilliant as the gems of the mine hover by, and birds of resplendent plumage flitting from bough to bough, chant mysterious dirges from the perfumed recesses of the grove. Their melody is hushed, for the wail of a trumpet comes, mournfully, upon the ear, and the dull roll of the muffled drum bodes, drearily, of death; a martial train sweep through the ground; with arms reversed and downcast eyes, they bear a coffin in their midst; banners, bound with funereal crape, are lowered upon the bier, and a helm and sword are laid upon the pall. In sumptuous trappings the warhorse of the dead brings up the rear; lowered is the proud arch of his neck; his head droops to the earth, and his disordered mane hangs loosely upon his chest. His saddle is vacant, the bridle is held by a stranger curb, and a consciousness of sorrow seems to press upon the noble steed. Again the shrill blast of the trumpet, and the roll of the drum break on the ear; the war-horse starts, and, neighing wildly as in answer rears high his head, and flings his broad mane upon the air. The procession halts beneath a new-made grave; the man of GOD approaches; piety and meekness are upon his brow; the ceremony begins; the nodding plumes of the warriors sink upon their breasts, and tears bedew their cheeks as the coffin is, slowly, committed to the earth. I hear the rattling of dust upon the lid, and the ringing discharge of musketry; again the wail of the trumpet floats, sadly, upon the breeze. No more-oh! Memory! no more! * * A mist has gathered upon the scene: it gradually disperses, revealing a dimly illumined chamber; the panels are of a dusky hue, and the lofty ceiling is decorated with a gothic fretwork, colossal busts, in marble, stationed upon brackets, start, like spectral visions, through the gloom, and faintly-detected portraits, in frames of antique carving, ornament the walls. Rich and massive, the furniture is of other times; and curtains of velvet, falling in heavy folds to the matted floor, close out the aspect of the hour. The light of a lamp discovers a dark-haired girl seated at a table in the centre of the room; she is occupied in writing, papers are strewn before her, and the pen is in her fingers, but for a moment she has suspended her employment, and, with her head leaning on her left hand, is evidently lost in abstraction. By her position her features are concealed from view, and the light falls, broadly, upon her forehead. Her reverie is over; she removes her hand, and again begins to write; a deep bloom is on her cheek, and a smile hovers for awhile around her mouth. Is that the bloom of youthful health? Behold it fades-it passes, utterly, away, and the cheek is cold as statuary marble, while an air of gentle seriousness steals NO. I. C athwart her brow. Suddenly she pauses, and, with a lingering motion, lays aside her pen,—she reads what she has written--it is a letter, and as her downcast eyes are fixed upon the page, a thousand rapid changes flit across her face; the hues of joy, of fear, of doubt-and, last, the roseate blush of tender hope. Her task is ended, and, rising from her seat, the youthful student crosses to the window, and throwing aside the ample curtains, puts back the sash. The moon is up; her path in the cerulean sky is marked by a track of drifting clouds, and brighter than so many diamonds, a few scattered stars glitter in that sea of purple azure. The landscape is part-illumined by her beams; its character is that of solemnity and deep repose; trees of majestic growth bow to the choral winds, and taper pines and firs of gloomy foliage, tower upon the view. Beyond is seen a desert mountain wrapt in unbroken shade, and, at its base, a sheet of water, bright as a silver shield, receives upon its surface the reflections of the agitated boughs. The young enthusiast dwells upon the scene with delight, and something like inspiration mingles with her expression. She seems to say, with the poet,* "How beautiful is Night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven: In full orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark blue depths; The desert circle spreads, Like the round ocean girdled with the sky, But she is interrupted-one knocks at the chamber door-the girl drops the thick curtains, which, closing instantaneously, shut out the view; and, desiring the applicant to enter, she advances as if to meet her at the door. A female appearing, delivers a packet to her mistress who motions her to retire; she obeys, and now left once more to solitude, the girl hastens to the perusal of her letters. A quick blush chases away the paleness of her complexion, a bright beam springs up into her eyes, tearful with gladness, and a smile, again, plays around her mouth. She presses the packet to her lips, and then turns to break the wax. Why fades the colour upon her cheek? Why is the smile lost in that sudden shade of terror? The seal is black-death broods upon the omen, and for an instant, the girl seems as if converted into stone; but, bursting from the trance, with wild alarm she rends the seal and drags the letter from the envelope. She opens it, a lock of sunny hair falls from the sheet-she sees it not-her heart and soul are centred * Southey. |