A RING'S SECRET

Can you forgive me, that I wear,

Dearest, a curl of sunny hair,

Not yours — yet for the sake of Love,

And tender faith it minds me of?

‘ Tis in this quaint old signet ring,

A curious, chased, engraven thing

That in some window charm'd my eye

And told of the last century.

Pure gold it was, but dull and blotch'd,

And bright'ning it one day, I touch'd

A spring that oped a little lid;

And there, for generations hid

In its small shrine of pallid gold —

They made such toys in days of old —

A shred of golden hair lay curl'd;

Worth all the gold of all the world,

Perchance, to him who shrin'd it so:

Ah,‘ twas a hundred years ago!

But, dearest, if he loved as I,

He loves unto eternity.