The Poetry Corner

Written In An Album.

By Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Judge we of coming, by the by-past, years, And still can Hope, the siren, soothe our fears? Cheated, deceived, our cherished day-dreams o'er, We cling the closer, and we trust the more. Oh, who can say there's bliss in the review Of hours, when Hope with fairy fingers drew A magic sketch of "rapture yet to be," A rainbow horizon, a life of glee! The world all bright before us vivid scene Of cloudless sunshine and of fadeless green; A treacherous picture of our coming years, Bright in prospective welcomed but with tears. How false the view, a backward glance will tell! A tale of visions wrecked, of broken spell, Of valued hearts estranged or careless grown, Affection's links dissevered or unknown; Of joys, deemed fadeless, gone to swift decay, And love's broad circle dwindled half away; Of early graves of friends who, one by one, Leave us at last to journey on alone. Turn to the home of childhood hallowed spot, Through life's vicissitudes still unforgot; The sacred hearth deserted now is found, Or unloved stranger-forms are circling round. In the dear hall, whose sounds were all our own, Are other voices, other accents known; And where our early friends? A starting tear And the rude headstone promptly answer, "Here." Thus will compare Hope's sketch of bliss to be With the undreamed of, sad reality; Yet this and more the afflicted heart may bear, If Faith, celestial visitant, be there, Whispering of greener shores, of purer skies, Of flowers unfading, love that never dies, A glimpse of joy to come in mercy given, The eternal sunshine of approving Heaven.