Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SPELLS OF MEMORY, by MARY N. MCDONALD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SPELLS OF MEMORY, by                    
First Line: It was but the note of a summer bird
Last Line: I go with the violet's faint perfume.
Alternate Author Name(s): Meigs, Mary N.; Bleeker, Mary N.
Subject(s): Memory


IT was but the note of a summer bird,
But a dream of the past in my heart it stirr'd,
And wafted me far to a breezy spot,
Where blossom'd the blue forget-me-not.
And the broad green boughs gave a checker'd gleam
To the dancing waves of a mountain stream,
And there, in the heat of a summer day,
Again on the velvet turf I lay,
And saw bright shapes in the floating clouds,
And rear'd fair domes, 'mid their fleecy shrouds,
As I look'd aloft to the azure sky,
And long'd for a bird's soft plumes to fly,
Till lost in its depths of purity.
Alas! I have waked from that early dream,
Far, far away is the mountain stream.
And the dewy turf, where so oft I lay,
And the woodland flowers, they are far away.
And the skies that once were to me so blue,
Now bend above with a darker hue,
And yet I may wander in fancy back
At memory's call to my childhood's track:
And the fount of thought hath been deeply stirr'd
By the passing note of a summer bird.

It was but the rush of the autumn wind,
But it left a spell of the past behind,
And I was abroad with my brothers twain
In the tangled paths of the wood again:
Where the leaves were rustling beneath our feet,
And the merry shout of our gleesome mood
Was echoed far in the solitude,
As we caught the prize which a kindly breeze
Sent down in a shower from the chesnut trees.
Oh! a weary time hath pass'd away
Since my brothers were out by my side at play
A weary time, with its weight of care,
And its toil in the city's crowded air --
And its pining wish for the hill-tops high --
For the laughing stream and the clear blue sky --
For the shaded dell, and the leafy halls
Of the old green wood where the sunlight falls.
But I see the haunts of my early days,
The old green wood where the sunshine plays,
And the flashing stream in its course of light, --
And the hill-tops high, and the skies so bright, --
And the silent depths of the shaded dell,
Where the twilight shadows at noonday fell, --
And the mighty charm which hath conquered these
Is nought, save a rush of the autumn breeze.

It was but a violet's faint perfume,
But it bore me back to a quiet room,
Where a gentle girl in the spring-time gay,
Was breathing her fair young life away,
Whose light through the rose-hued curtains fell,
And tinted her cheek like the ocean-shell,
And the southern breeze on its fragrant wings
Stole in with its tale of all lovely things.
Where love watch'd on through the long, long hours,
And friendship came with its gift of flowers;
And death drew near with a stealthy tread,
And lightly pillow'd in dust her head,
And seal'd up gently the lids so fair,
And damp'd the brow with its clustering hair,
And left the maiden in slumber deep,
To waken no more from that tranquil sleep.
Then we laid the flower her hand had prest,
To wither and die on her gentle breast;
And back to the shade of that quiet room
I go with the violet's faint perfume.





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