A STRANGER'S MEMORIAL.

I KNEW thee not! and unto thee

Could be but known by name;

Yet thy loved memory has, to me,
No slight or transient claim:
'Tis one that will not be gainsaid,
Haunting me till this debt be paid.

However fragile be the wreath

Thus to thy memory twined, Early, like thee, to fade in death!

Yet, if it leave behind

Sweetness like thine-it may not be

Worthless to some who mourn for thee.

100

A STRANGER'S MEMORIAL.

The flower, whose beauty charmed the eye,

May fade before its noon;

But while its odours yet supply

Their unexhausted boon,

Shall we regard as wholly dead,

What can such lingering perfume shed?

No! he whose cherished memory still

In fondest hearts is shrined,

There wakening many a tender thrill

Of love-by death refined;

Whose death but makes him loved the more;
He is not lost-though gone before.

For thus to live, is life more pure
Than fleeting breath can give;
Because its essence must endure
Long as the soul shall live:

Mortality can ne'er unbind

What links immortal mind to mind!

A STRANGER'S MEMORIAL.

Hence they who miss and mourn thee most,

With many a silent tear,

Love thee too well to deem thee lost,

While yet they feel thee near:

And in their spirit's inner shrine

Communion sweet can hold with thine!

"Some natural tears" must often flow, To think how brief thy day;

Yet much to soothe the mourner's woe

May wipe those tears away:

Oh! mourn not for the "

early blest,"

Who soonest "from their labours rest!"

Nor deem that all too soon his sun
Hath gone in brightness down;

Because by him can ne'er be won

Eld's honoured, hoary crown!

For an eternity sublime,

Grudge not the brief date given to time.

101

102

A STRANGER'S MEMORIAL.

The age we honour-standeth not

In long-protracted years;

But in a life that knows no blot

To sadden sorrow's tears:

Wisdom is still grey hairs to man!
A spotless life-its noblest span !

STANZAS.

Ir is not alone while we gaze on the flower,
Whose beauty enchants us-its influence we feel;
Its fragrance lives on to a far-distant hour,
Triumphant o'er death in its silent appeal.

Nor while music's full harmony round us may float,
Is it then, and then only, we bow to its spell;
On the echo of many a magical note,

In moments to come, faithful memory shall dwell.

And thus when from friends we are fated to part,

Should feelings and thoughts on our memory throng, Which should still keep their images stored in each heart,

Like the odour of flowers, or the echo of song!