: Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland by Hanna Abigail Stanley - Poetry; Fiction

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Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

"There comes a voice that awakes my soul; It is the voice of years that are gone,-- They roll before me with all their deeds."

PREFACE These pages were not written for public inspection; but to beguile the weary hours of indisposition, and present a record of thoughts and sentiments to the eyes of my children, after my lips are sealed in death.

From a criticising public I should shrink; but to a sympathizing public I would appeal, trusting the holy mantle of charity will be flung over my errors, and my motives appreciated.

I would take this opportunity to tender my hearty and sincere thanks to my patrons, who have aided me in this enterprise, not only by their subscriptions, but by their words of sympathy and encouragement, which have fallen like sunshine upon my gloomy pathway, warming my desolate heart, and leaving a sweet fragrance upon the memory, which shall live on and on, through the long ages of eternity; for beautifully and emphatically has Mrs. Childs said,

"Goodness and beauty live forever,"

Perhaps I should apologise for the pensive strain in which I have written, but it has been in shady places, when the body was suffering from disease, and I felt almost too weak to breathe. Dear reader, did you ever feel that you were dying? that there was but a step between you and death? How natural, at such a time, and in such a place, to contemplate the circumstances connected with the deaths of dear, departed friends.

Hoping this may lead some thoughtless one to reflection, I submit it to the investigation of a generous public.

But if I fail in this, shall I have written in vain? O, no; it is but a fulfilment in part of the great mission, "do with all thy might what thy hand findeth to do." If we have but one small talent we are commanded to put it upon usury, "that the Lord may receive his own when he cometh."

Some pieces were contributions from the pen of a loved sister, whose sentiments and principles are in unison with my own, and so they flow on together, in one common channel. Those designated by a star in the Index, are from her pen.

These errors escaped attention in reading the proof, before it went to press.

When autumn winds are round us sighing,-- When pale flowers are 'round us dying, It pain and pleasure to us gives, To gather up the wither'd leaves.

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