Poems (Chitwood)/Mementoes

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MEMENTOES.
  A tiny tress of hair,That, trembling, falls in curls of sunny hue,  I see before me there,While memory brings the owner's form to view.  She was a pale-brow'd child,—Like as a spring-bud, frosted ere its bloom,—  With pure heart, undefiled.Death bore the cherub from us to the tomb.
  A fragrant, faded wreathOf paly flowers. Oh! they were given to me  Fresh from the dewy heath,By one I never more on earth shall see,  For came a stealthy hand,And bore the maiden, in her days of youth,  Up to the better land,Where all is peace, pure, perfect love and truth.
  A ring, with clasped handsCarved on the gold. It was the gift of one.  Who now, in distant lands,Stands 'neath the brightness of a southern sun,  Where the ambrosial breezeThrills in æolian music thro' the bowers.  There, where the orange treesWave 'neath the blue sky sweetly-scented flowers,  While, with a painter's eye, ​He views each scene, I wonder if he yet  Doth ever give a sighTo one he vowed he never would forget.
  A locket next I ope,And thro' my tears an image dear I see.  Oh! every star of hope,Light of my life, lies in the grave with thee;  Dear image, while I look,The past comes dimly pictured to my view,  In memory's solemn hook;Then fades away like drops of morning dew.  The world is dark,Since thou art gone—yet I will sigh no more;  Soon will life's barqueWaft me to thee, where parting shall be o'er.

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