THE FORGOTTEN ONE.
BY MISS L. E. LANDON.
I have no early flowers to fling
O'er thy yet earlier grave;
O'er it the morning lark may sing,
By it the bright rose wave;
The very night dew disappears
Too soon, as if it spared its tears.
Thou art forgotten!—thou, whose feet
Were listen'd for like song!
They used to call thy voice so sweet;—
It did not haunt them long.
Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth—
How could they bear their lonely hearth!
There is no picture to recall
Thy glad and open brow;
No profiled outline on the wall
Seems like thy shadow now;
They have not even kept to wear
One ringlet of thy golden hair.
When here we shelter'd last appears
But just like yesterday;
It startles me to think that years
Since then are past away.
The old oak tree that was our tent,
No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent.
