Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell #393746

MEMENTOS.

     Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves
     Of cabinets, shut up for years,
     What a strange task we've set ourselves!
     How still the lonely room appears!
     How strange this mass of ancient treasures,
     Mementos of past pains and pleasures;
     These volumes, clasped with costly stone,
     With print all faded, gilding gone;

     These fans of leaves from Indian trees—
     These crimson shells, from Indian seas—
     These tiny portraits, set in rings—
     Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things;
     Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith,
     And worn till the receiver's death,
     Now stored with cameos, china, shells,
     In this old closet's dusty cells.

     I scarcely think, for ten long years,
     A hand has touched these relics old;
     And, coating each, slow-formed, appears
     The growth of green and antique mould.

     All in this house is mossing over;
     All is unused, and dim, and damp;
     Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover—
     Bereft for years of fire and lamp.