A CONTRAST. AN you open that ebony Casket? Look, this is the key: but stay, Those are only a few old letters That I keep, to burn some day. Yes, that Locket is quaint and ancient; And give me the little Portrait Which hangs by a crimson string. I have never opened that Casket It was sent me back in anger But I want you to see the Portrait : It was like me once; but remember And Life, with its fierce brief Tempests, Is it strange to call it my Portrait? With restless, yet confident longing With that trust which leans on the Future, Until she has taught us to tremble And hope, but to trust no more. How that young, light heart would have pitied Me now-if her dreams had shown A quiet and weary woman With all her illusions flown. Yet I-who shall soon be resting, And have passed the hardest part, Can look back with a deeper pity On that young unconscious heart. It is strange; but Life's currents drift us That we scarcely notice the changes, And forget, while to-day absorbs us, How old mysteries are unsealed; How the old, old ties are loosened, And the old, old wounds are healed. And we say that our Life is fleeting So now and then it is wisdom Of a Time that is passed away. The very look of that Portrait, 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. THE BRIDE'S DREAM. HE stars are gleaming; The maiden sleepsWhat 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; |