THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. 



iiONDS OP LOVE. 



A strain of the heart's music ! yet one more, 

 Though it be low and broken in its tone, 

 And feeble as an infant's dying moan, 



For thee, beloved, I pour. 



A strain of the heart's music, full of love, 

 Tender and grateful, — love the tried and true, 

 Yet mingled with a touch of sadness too, 



Like voice of pining dove. 



For past is now life's glad and joyous spring, 

 When every breeze my busy pulses stirred, 

 And my heart carolled, like a forest-bird 



Rising on new-fledged wing. 



Now through life's summer-time we journey on, 

 Bearing the heat and burden of the day, 

 Finding, at every footstep of the way, 



Some loved companion gone. 



