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L. M. Stretch

Love's First Dream.

RIGHT is the froth of an easter wave, As it plays in the sun's last glow; BR Pure is the pearl in its crystal bed, Gemming the worlds below; Warm is the heart that mingles its blood In the red tide of Glory's stream; But more flashingly bright, more pure, more warm, Is "Love's First Dream."

Hope paints the vision with hues of her own, In all the colors of spring; While the young lip breathes like a dewy rose Fanned by the fire-fly's wing. 'Tis a fairy scene, where the fond soul roves, Exulting in Passion's warm beam; Ah, sad 'tis to think we should wake with a chill, From "Love's First Dream."

But it fades like the rainbow's brilliant arch, Scattered by clouds and winds; Leaving the spirit, unrobed of light, In darkness and tears behind.

When mortals look back on the heartfelt woes They have met with in Life's rough stream, That sigh is oft deepest which Memory gives To "Love's First Dream." m