POETRY.

A CLOSED BOOK.

I READ it long ago, and as I read,

A world of wonder rose before my eyes And widened into vastness, dimly spread 'Neath solemn skies.

Beyond the page my emulous desire Divined the marvels of unwritten scenes,— I was ambitious, by the school-room fire, Just in my teens!

Now, though the book has faded out of mind, Though all that dreamy pageant I forget, Its shadow lingers, vast and undefined, And haunts me yet.

The far-off glory dies in pallid gleams,— Cannot a yearning sigh the flame restore? Cannot I read again, and dream those dreams Once more,—once more?

Never. The child has passed away, the book Is closed, and 'mid my childish memories laid, With all its magic in it. I would look, But am afraid.

Men do not name it 'mid immortal works, And laggard Fame is slow to find it out. Perhaps. And yet within my soul there lurks Something of doubt.

How if the visions whose dim figures thickened Round me, and thronged my yet uni3eopled air,— How if the fear, whereat my pulses quickened, Should not be there ? How if the shadow, awful in its gloom,

Were dwarfed and shrivelled when the daylight dawned,— How if I smiled above the empty tomb,— How if I yawned ?

How if I marvelled at myself, and him I honoured once ? Surely the Past might rise In human shape, and look at me with dim, Reproachful eyes, Because for his enchantment long ago I had no thanks to give in later days,- 0 dreams that flickered in the firelight glow, Be his your praise !

He gave my fancy wings, and in its flight,

No fault, no failure, could it stoop to note ; Perhaps I read the book he meant to write,

Not that he wrote.

Why should the knowledge that in awe began Be ended now in laughter barbed with pain ? And why take back the faith that never can Be given again?

No, he shall keep it ! Do not draw the curtain, Let my dim wonder be a wonder still,— I will not read it,—I am almost certain I never will !

MARGARET VELET--