H. F. S.

The Ideal

I saw her once--O taunting Destiny!

The paths of life then drew our steps apart;

Yet still that swift and softly loosened dart

Lies quiv'ring in my breast, and I must be

A gazer on the glass of Memory,

A silent watcher o'er my wounded heart--

How oft from dreams of liberty I start

And wake!--alas! the chain still fetters me.

Life gave its sweetest gift--ah! wherefore weep?

A cruel boon perchance; yet in my mind

The cold perfections of her beauty keep

A loveliness that words can never bind--

The seed was sown; and now my thoughts do reap

A harvest where no chaff is left behind.