The Lost Clue. I watch the fire burning low, And muse upon the dreamy past ; Uncalled its visions come and go, Nor swiftly rise, nor ling’ring last. It was not so in days of old— I watched not then a flick’ring flame ; Each morn its tale of duty told, And noble fancies quick’ning came ; And round my life a golden thread, That softly bound it, still ran on ; Unravel’d now, all worn and frayed, The strands hang idle, one by one. I take them up, but cannot twine A constant purpose through the day ; And that old strength—nay, was it mine Or hers ? and with her past away ? Within the grate how dimly move The visionary forms, and blend ! The gleaming slabs around, above, Fit framework to the pictures lend. And ever there she moves along, The laughing child, the sweet bright[girl ; Ah ! did I hear a well-known song, That thus my pulses throb and whirl ? Mark where about a rustic porch The rose o’ertops the eglantine ; Look, in the doorway’s low-brow’d arch, She sits, half shadow, half in shine. Why plays the blush along her cheek ? Why drop the steadfast eyes so low ? The lips are parted—doth she speak, Or comes the quick breath to and fro ? And all in shadow, see, there stands A youth that pleads,—you cannotdoubt His pleading,—see the trembling hands Steal down to find each other out. ’Tis gone—how chill it is to-night ! A flame shoots up, and thro’ the room Its sudden gleams dart on, and light A picture hanging in the gloom ; And in the weird and mystic gleam The canvas glows and stirs with life ; The sweet face smiles, the liquid beam Rekindles in thine eyes, dear wife ; And closer to thy mother-breast The dear arms strain the babe that lies Encradled there ;—ah, me ! that nest Brief home it gave, brief love thoseeyes Ah, no ! no love is brief—I feel Love cannot die—why linger here ?— Beside thy bed, dear wife, I kneel, And seem thy sweet low voice tohear,— “ Pine not, dear love,” it seems to say, “ Nor let an idle sorrow quell The constant will, the thought, the play Of fancy that I love so well. “ I shall not see thee rise, nor see The promise of our child unfold ; But thou wilt watch her ; she will be More than her mother was of old. “ I could have wished—but God is good, How good we know not yet—andthou Wilt watch the child, whose womanhood Can know, dear heart, no mothernow.” Is this a vision too ? ’Tis past— The embers smoulder in the grate, And thro’ the shutter comes at last The struggling day-beam, chill andlate. But through the twilight lightly falls A prattling voice upon my ear ; Dear child, that tone my strength re-calls, In thine thy mother’s voice I hear. C. U. D.