The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1842-12-23 00:00:00

FOR THE LIVERPOOL STANDARD.

Cold blows the blast, though the summer is nigh ;
Cold gleam the stars, and all pale as in tears;
But colder this heart in my bosom doth lie,—
This heart that should be in the spring of its years.
Dark sets the storm over wild wood and field,
The herds to their wind-shaken solitude flee ;
But darker the woes in my bosom concealed,
And wilder the fortune that waits upon me !

Sad as a wing-broken bird from its nest,
I wander the night, and no shelter I see;
But the chill pining heart of the bird shall find rest,
And sweet is the rest GOD will yet grant to me.

CHARLES SWAIN.

OUR OLD LOVE.

(For the Liverpool Standard.

" The mere memory of an old love, is sweeter than a new one."-
New Monthly Magazine.

The mere memory of an old love, so sacred, sad ; yet true
'Tie sweeter far than present joys, of one that is but new,
With ballow'd feelings for the past, for joys for ever fled,
We think and speak of her though false, as friends do of
their dead ;
No harshness now, nor bitterness, pervade our soothed breast,
But calm, and tranquil as the sea, when storms have sunk to

rest,
We ponder o'er the scenes of old, and think that all the
blame
Should not be borne by her alone,—peace rest upon her name!
We call to mind her face and form, so graceful, and so fair,
Her winning smiles, her sun-lit eyes, her rich luxuriant hair ;
Her polish'd brow, like marble white, unfurrow'd then by

care,
The very seat, and throne of truth, seem'd fled for ever
there ;
So passing strange, that she'd be false, to us it now doth seem,
But as some horrid phantasy, some sleep-disturbing dream.
And though the truth so fearfully, strikes home upon our
heart,
Yet the memory of our old love, from thence can ne'er depart.

But the memory of an old love, confiding, firm, and true,
Through evil and through good report, can love that is but
nelo,
Aught equal this ?—its joys so pure, now temper'd down by
time,
As silver from its drossy orelli, new trials but refine ;
Its lust'rous brightness, shineth most, in darkness and in
gloom,
Its light continueth here on earth, till hid within the tomb.
Oh! this old true love, abideth, when all has fled beside,
It is a tree of goodly growth, with branches spreading wide ;
It flourishes luxuriantly, it knows of no decay,
Alike unmoved by winter's storms, or summer's scorching
ray ;
The memory of its former days, it cherishes, and well,
Upon each scene of early love, it oft delights to dwell;

The day, the hour, the very spot, it readily can name,
Yes, 'twas a shaded, sweet, old-fashioned English lane,
With daisies, and with violets its banks were thickly spread,
And the spreading ash, its branches cast, a cooling shade
o'erhead,
While the hawthorn and the woodbine shed a sweet perfume
around,
Oh ! 'tis only in our favor'd isle, such lovely spots are found.
There first, with few and falt'ring words was timidly
confess'd,
The ardent love, long felt before, but ne'er durst be express'd.
Extatic happy moment ! how replete with heavenly bliss,
When the first pledge of mutual love, is sealed with the kiss,
Which angels might have envied then, so pure from earth's
alloy,
Yes, the memory of that happy time, is cherish'd long with
joy
The beauty and the loveliness of person and of mind,
Which then entranc'd our youthful gaze, continues still
combin'd—
And many years since then have fled, d mingled good and
Our old true love abideth yet, unchang'd, unalter'd still.
S. K.
December 21st, 1842.