ETHEL CHURCHILL.
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CHAPTER XIX.
RETURN TO COURTENAYE HALL.
Ah! never another dream can be
Like that early dream of ours,
When Hope, like a child, lay down to sleep
Amid the folded flowers.
But Hope has wakened since, and wept
Itself, like a rainbow, away;
And the flowers have faded, and fallen around,
We have none for a wreath to-day.
Now, Truth has taken the place of Hope,
And our hearts are like winter hours;
Little has after-life been worth
That early dream of ours.
Change is the universal prescription for a wounded spirit. "It will do you so much good," is the constant remark. Perhaps it may; but how reluctant is any one who is
