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The very look of that Portrait,
The Perfume that seems to cling

To those fragile and faded letters,
And the Locket, and the Ring,

If they only stirred in my spirit
Forgotten pleasure and pain,—

Why, memory is often bitter,
And almost always in vain;

But the contrast of bygone hours
Comes to rend a veil away,—

And I marvel to see the stranger Who is living in me to-day.



HE stars are gleaming; The maiden sleeps— What is she dreaming?For see—she weeps. By her side is an Angel

With folded wings;
While the Maiden slumbers

The Angel sings:
He sings of a Bridal, Of Love, of Pain,
Of a heart to be given,—

And all in vain;
(See, her cheek is flushing,

As if with pain ;)
He telleth of sorrow, Regrets and fears,
And the few vain pleasures We buy with tears;

And the bitter lesson
We learn from years.

The stars are gleaming

Upon her brow:
What is she dreaming

So calmly now 1
By her side is the Angel

With folded wings;
She smiles in her slumber

The while he sings. He sings of a Bridal,

Of Love divine;
Of a heart to be laid

On a sacred shrine;
Of a crown of glory,

Where seraphs shine;
Of the deep, long rapture

The chosen know
Who forsake for Heaven

Vain joys below,
Who desire no pleasure,
And fear no woe.

TheBells are ringing,

The sun shines clear, The Choir is singing,

The guests are here. Before the High Altar

Behold the Bride;
And a mournful Angel

Is by her side.
She smiles, all content

With her chosen lot,—
(Is her last night's dreaming

So soon forgot?)
And oh, may the Angel

Forsake her not!
For on her small hand

There glitters plain The first sad link

Of a life-long chain ;— And she needs his guiding

Through paths of pain.



OT a sound is heard in the Convent;
The Vesper Chant is sung,
The sick have all been tended,

The poor nun's toils are ended

Till the Matin bell has rung.

All is still, save the Clock, that is ticking

So loud in the frosty air,

And the soft snow, falling as gently

As an answer to a prayer.

But an Angel whispers, " Oh, Sister,
You must rise from your bed to pray;
In the silent, deserted chapel,
You must kneel till the dawn of day;
For, far on the desolate moorland,
So dreary, and bleak, and white,
There is one, all alone and helpless,
In peril of death to-night.

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