To I——­

  Lines for a Friend upon the 20th Anniversary of her
  Birthday

  Human Thought

  Lines written upon the Departure of a Brother

  Lines on the Death of a Friend

  The Power of Custom

  Annie Howard

  We all do Perish like the Leaf

  Life Compared to the Seasons

  Writing Composition

  Lines written in Answer to the Question “Where is
  our Poet?”

  My Husband’s Grave

  Lines written upon the Young who have recently died
  in our Village

  Conscience

  Lines written in an Album

  Lines from the pen of my Husband, who is Deceased

  Hope

  Visit to Mount Auburn

  Lines from Mary to her Father in California, with her
  Daguerreotype

  A Reminiscence

  Letter of Resignation from Mrs. Hanna to the Maternal
  Association

  Improvement of Time

  Lines written on the Death of Frank

  The Pleasures of Memory

  The Song of the Weary One

  Lines inscribed to a Brother

  Changes

  Lines to Mrs. S——­ on the Death of an Infant

  The Spirits of the Dead

  To Mrs. J.C.  Bucklin, by her Father

  The Widow’s Home

  To the Reader

WITHERED LEAVES.

Shadows of the Past

  Sister, the solemn midnight hour
    Is meet, to weave the web of thought,
  To trace the shadowy imagery,
    From fancy’s secret chambers brought.

  To enter Memory’s hidden cell,
    And bid the sentinel appear;
  Her strange, mysterious tales to tell,
    And wipe the dust from by-gone years.

  To wander back down time’s dark stream,
    And from its margin pluck the flowers,
  To twine them with the moon’s pale beams,
    Then fling them over Memory’s bow’rs.

  To gather all the fragments up,
    The phantoms chase of other years;
  Their blighted joys, their withered hopes,
    Their clouds, their sunshine, and their tears.

  We’ll wander forth while others sleep,
    Fanned gently by the night wind’s sigh
  And thus our midnight vigils keep,
    While night’s fair lamps burn bright on high.

  We’ll wander in the realms of thought,
    That boundless space, who may define? 
  From which more dazzling gems are brought
    Than sparkle in Golconda’s mine.

  Then, sister, let us linger not,
    The conscious moon her lamp holds high,
  And with her smiling, placid face,
    Beams from the chambers of the sky.

  Touched by fancy’s magic spell,
    We’ll conjure up the things of yore;
  From their cold chambers bring the dead,
    And friends of former years restore.