68 



SONG. 



BY WILLIAM J. BOSOMWORTH. 



I lov'd her in my childish dreams. 



When sad I ne'er had been. 

 And flowers I cull'd into a wreath. 



For her, my youthful queen ; 

 My heart was full of lightsome mirth. 



When musing on my lot. 

 And silent words spoke in my soul — 



My love, forget me not. 



We tripp'd along o'er nature's floor. 



At even's pensive hour. 

 And stars would rise to light our way. 



To some sequestered bower ; 

 We spoke of love, of future days. 



Of some secluded cot. 

 And all her words echoed my wish, 



I will forget thee not. 



I lived to see the world grow dark. 



And a dimness o'er the past. 

 My brightest hopes seemed fled and gone. 



By the fierceness of the blast ; 

 Yet, then I found within her heart, 



A shield, and resting spot. 

 And heard its faithful beatings speak. 



Still thou art not forgot. 



