But who on earth hath power to heal
        The agony of mind? 
    O Memory! it long had slept;
        But now it woke to power,
    And brought before him all the past,
        From childhood’s earliest hour. 
    He saw himself in school-boy prime;
        Then youth, its pleasures, cares,
    Came up before him, and he saw
        How cunningly the snares
    Were set to catch him as he ran
        In thoughtless haste along,
    To charm him with deceitful smiles,
        And with its siren song: 
    He saw a seeming friendly hand
        Hold out the glittering wine,
    Without a thought that deep within
        A serpent’s form did twine. 
    Then manhood came; then he did love,
        And with a worthy pride
    He led a cherished being to
        The altar as his bride;
    And mid the gay festivity
        Passed round the flowing wine,
    And friends drank, in the sparkling cup,
        A health to thee and thine. 
    A health!  O, as the past came up,
        The wanderer’s heart was stirred
    And as a madman he poured forth
        Deep curses on that word. 
    For well he knew that “health” had been
        The poison of his life;
    Had made the portion of his soul
        With countless sorrows rife. 
    Six years passed by-a change had come,
        And what a change was that! 
    No more the comrades of his youth
        With him as comrades sat. 
    Duties neglected, friends despised,
        Himself with naught to do,
    A mother dead with anguish, and
        A wife heart-broken too. 
    Another year-and she whom he
        Had promised to protect
    Died in the midst of poverty,
        A victim of neglect. 
    But ere she died she bade him kneel
        Beside herself in prayer,
    And prayed to God that he would look
        In pity on them there: 
    And bless her husband, whom she loved,
        And all the past forgive,
    And cause him, ere she died, begin
        A better life to live. 
    She ceased to speak,—­the husband rose,
        And, penitent, did say,
    While tears of deep contrition flowed,
        “I’ll dash the bowl away!”
    A smile passed o’er the wife’s pale face,
        She grasped his trembling hand,
    Gave it one pressure, then her soul
        Passed to a better land. 
    He, bent to kiss her pale cold lips,
        But they returned it not;
    And then he felt the loneliness
        And sorrow of his lot. 
    It seemed as though his life had fled;
        That all he called his own,
    When her pure spirit took its flight,
        Had with that spirit flown. 
    She had been all in all to him,
        And deep his heart was riven
    With anguish, as he thought what woe
        He