The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1880-07-30
BY-GONE PICTURES.


have secret hall of art,
Hung with pictures set in gold,
And on the leaves of mem'ry's book
Each familiar names enrolled;
But is it strange? does not the same
Live in every woInan's heart?
And do not men, too, often hang
By-gone pictures in their hearts?
IT'S but farce, foolish whim,
To say those faces are forgot;
The faithful dog can meier forget
well-known voice, or a home-hke cot;
Then tell me not that human minds,
Endowed with wisdom from ON high,
Forget the smile. the form, or face,
Or the loye-glance Of youths bright eye.
Tell me not that one true woman
Ever threw oblivion's shade
Der the conquests that her virtue
In her youth and beauty made;
And though his name may be obscure,
Or on fane's tablet brightly shine,
It's stamped the same on mem'ry's page,
He once bowed before her shrine.
He offered her the noblest gift
Life and honor could bestow,
Thg greatest prize that man could bring
From any station, high or low;
He offered her his heart and hand,
Waited to hear her say 81 will: :"
And, though she dared not breathe the words,
That man lives III her mem'ry Btil
I'D spurn to-day the cold, base man
That would before me boldly stand
And swear that he'd forgotten one
When he had fondly clasped her hand
With that feryent sincere pleasure
Which but an ardent lover feels
When round his heart the cord of love,
With magic power, softly steals.
And often in my lonely hours
roam this hidden hall Of art,
And gaze upon each beaming face
That wakes old mem'ries in my heart,
And youths gay scenes come crowding back,
But with them bring no singing blight;
Fate he'd the jeweIed prize drew
Thank God, I'm blessed with him tonight
But there hangs one with curly hair,
So inky black it shades the brow
The boy-beau of my girlhood days,
The man of far-famed title now.
He tossed me in the grapevine swing,
Made me bowers, called me his queen,
And carried my shoes upon his arm
When would wade the ripping stream.
Here hangs another with such eyes
Great shining, lustrous orbs of brown-
That only gieam from souls like bis,
Born for distinction and renown.
He brought me from his life's great work
The sweet illusions Of his heart,
And, in each sweet, impassiOned song,
He strove loves language to impart
And here's a noble, manly face,
With soft eyes of heavenly blue
Eyes that bespeab an inward soul,
High born, generous, just and true.
And with that fervor of the soul
Which but from truth and candor shine
lie brought loves pledges from his heart,
And laid them down before my shrine.
And there is one-I wish the veil
Could ne'er be raised from off that face,
Or that could tear the picture
Forever from its hiding-place.
Not that care; but then know
Sad memories will around it cling;
Not that one love-pang of the past
Can eyermore my bosom sting
But, then, twas sad to see a soul
So pure and true MS his had been
Firmly grasp vines flowing bowl
And plunge in darkest, deepest sin.
we prayed for him in years agone,
And sometimes yet, perhaps, / do;
For, let his faults be what they may,
To me he was faithful, noble, true
But there's facet Jolly face
il makes me laugh to see it now;
So innocent so full of mirth
No shadow rested on his brow.
Those sparkling eyes, that laughing beamed
With widest, highest, brightest joy;
Oh no, never shall forget
That happy, gay, bravc-hearted boy.
Boy, did say? Full thirty years
Had dawned and closed DER him, l ween,
But yet his heart was free and light
AS any boys of just sixteen.
Ord time had left no furrowed trace
Upon his noble, manly brow.
God bless him. and truly hope
He may be just as happy now.
wore his flowers, sang his songs
The while he fingered at my side,
But when he sought my heart and hand
Told him was promised bride.
No dark frown gathered on his brow;
He nobly clasped the hand of fate,
With that same smie-part of his soul
Said, "Just my luck; l am to late"
God bless them all-for with each face
Live bright mementos of the past
may forget them, but twill be
When memiry from my brain is cast.
Each one brought loves early flowers,
Around my pathway to entwine,
Each one paid mans greatest homage
While humbly bowling at my shrine.
Perchance fault-tinders may condemn
The pictures l have drawn from youth,
But they all do the same sometimes,
If they would frankly tell the truth
And if they can forget the forms
That worshiped them in youths gay hours,
l fear their souls will never wake
Meath high heavens warning powers.
CoRGNTH, Miss.