warning
        Of the sweets it held in store,
    By the dancing waves surrounded,
    Like a fairy one she bounded
        To her lover’s arms once more. 
    Villagers thus tell the story,
    And they say a light of glory
        Hovereth above the spot
    Where for days and years she waited,
    With a love all unabated,
        And a faith that faltered not. 
    There’s a stone that is uplifted,
    Where the wild sea-flowers have drifted;
        Fonder words no stone o’er bore;
    And the waves come up to greet them,
    Seeming often to repeat them,
        While afar their echoes roar-
        “Deathless love of Elinore.”

’TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED.

    ’T is sweet to be remembered
        In the turmoil of this life,
    While toiling up its pathway,
        While mingling in its strife,
    While wandering o’er earth’s borders,
        Or sailing o’er its sea,—­
    ’T is sweet to be remembered
        Wherever we may be. 
    What though our path be rugged,
        Though clouded be our sky,
    And none we love and cherish,
        No friendly one is nigh,
    To cheer us in our sorrow,
        Or share with us our lot,—­
    ’T is sweet to be remembered,
        To know we’re not forgot. 
    When those we love are absent
        From our hearth-stone and our side,
    With joy we learn that pleasure
        And peace with them abide;
    And that, although we’re absent,
        We’re thought of day by day;—­
    ’T is sweet to be remembered
        By those who are away. 
    When all our toils are ended,
        The conflict all is done,
    And peace, in sweetest accents,
        Proclaims the victory won;
    When hushed is all the tumult,
        When calmed is all the strife,
    And we, in patience, meekly
        Await the end of life: 
    Then they who, when not present,
        In spirit yet were near,
    And, as we toiled and struggled,
        Did whisper in our ear,
    “’Tis sweet to be remembered,
        And thou art not forgot,”
    If fortune smile upon us,
        Shall share our happy lot.

I CALL THEE MINE.

    Yes, ever such I’ll call thee, will ever call thee mine,
    And with the love I bear thee a wreath of poesy twine;
    And when the stars are shining in their bright home of blue,
    Gazing on them, thou mayest know that I like them are true. 
    Forget thee! no, O, never! thy heart and mine are one. 
    How can the man who sees its light forget the noonday sun? 
    Or he who feels its genial warmth forget the orb above;
    Or, feeling sweet affection’s power, its source-another’s love? 
    Go, ask the child that sleepeth upon its mother’s breast