166 
Periwinkle. — ‘ Sweet Remembrances .’ 
Few spells have greater potency in cheering the wearied spirit 
than the tender recollections of our early home. 
Within her quiet bower 
A lady sat alone, 
At the gentle twilight hour, 
When memory mounts her throne; 
And the citron buds then flinging 
Their odors on the air, 
To her musing thoughts were bringing 
Her early home, so dear. 
She dreamed of those who dwelt, 
Its treasured scenes among, 
Till all she there had felt, 
To Memory’s harp-strings sprung; 
