95 
-“ Do not all clmrms fly 
At the mere touch of cold philosophy? 
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven, — 
We know her woof, her texture, she is given 
In the dull catalogue of common things. 
Philosophy will clip an angel’s wings, 
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, 
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — 
Unweave a rainbow.” 
Tlmnks to thee, Memory ! we do owe thee much, 
Thou faithful chronicler of by-gone years; 
Yea, though thou sometimes wakest by sudden touch 
“ Thoughts which do lie almost too deep for tears 
For many a pleasure hast thou hoarded too, 
And when the present on the sense doth pall, 
When Hope no longer gilds the distant view, 
Then dost thou, Memory, some sweet scene recal. 
Not dimm’d, but soften’d by those clouds which cast 
A magic twilight round each vision of the past. 
The past! ah, who would with its records part, 
Because that some are blotted with a tear ? 
The smiles which made sweet sunshine in the heart, 
The tones that were as music to the ear, 
