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I LOVE STORY.
And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide
MEMORY! beloved memory! to us thou art as hope to other men. The present--solitary, unexciting, where are its charms? The future hath no joys in store for us; and may bereave us of some of the few faint pleasures that still are
What then is left us--old before our time-but to banquet on the past ?
A LOVE STORY.
• And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide
From day-break when the mountain pales his fire,
MEMORY! beloved memory! to us thou art
Lut on the ?
Memory! thou art in us, as the basil of the enamoured Florentine.* Thy blossoms, thy leaves green, fresh, and fragrant,-draw their nurture, receive their every colouring, from what was dearest to us on earth. And are they not watered by our tears ?
The poet tells us—
" Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
But it is not so. Where is he of the tribe of the unfortunate, who would not gladly barter the contemplation of present wretchedness, for the remembrance, clogged as it is by a thousand woes, of a time when joyous visions flitted across life's
Yes! though the contrast, the succeeding moment, should cut him to the soul.
“ Joy's recollection is no longer joy,
Whilst sorrow's memory is a sorrow still.”
Ah! there's the rub! yet, better to think it was joy, than gaze unveiled on the cold reality around;
* See Keats' poem taken from Boccaccio.