XXI.—MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION

Yes ! all things tell us of a birthright lost,
A brightness from our nature pass'd away!
Wanderers we seem, that from an alien coast,
Would turn to where their Father's mansion lay,
And but by some lone flower, that 'midst decay
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone,
Revealing dimly, with grey moss o'ergrown,
The faint-worn impress of its glory's day,
Can trace their once-free heritage; though dreams
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams
Flash o'er their souls.—But One, oh! One alone,
For us the ruin'd fabric may rebuild,
And bid the wilderness again be fill'd
With Eden-flowers—One, mighty to atone!