The Argosy — page 179: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

164 IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. When over youth’s receding track The moonlight of remembrance throws A tender charm, half winning back The sunshine that too quickly goes: How oft in retrospection cast, Untrammelled fancy floats between The actual story of the past, And what that story might have been. But simple words to breathe so much Of soft regret or sorrow keen, In truth there are not many touch More hearts than these—It might have been! Alone and loveless, year by year, Our lives are lived, our ways are planned ; Young love himself once hovered near, To wait awhile a beckoning hand. When wistfully the urchin smiled, We passed him by with look serene, Though now, I warrant, thought beguiled We sometimes say—lIt might have been! Oh, simple words that breathe so much Of soft regret or sorrow keen, Where is the heart ye cannot touch, Oft echoed sigh—It might have been ? We saw the victor’s laurel wave, But never proud success have known; Alack, her glowing mead she gave To other efforts than our own. *Twas not for us to taste her bliss, Who only prove what failures mean ; Yet conscience whispers—but for this, Or but for that—It might have been! Where is the heart they cannot touch With soft regret or sorrow keen ? To you, to me they breathe so much, Those simple words—It might have been! Here was the glittering plaything prized, Whose worthlessness we saw too late; And there the single chance despised, Which opened up a fairer fate. Ah, well-a-day ! we know not what Of danger lurked within the scene, And haply it were wiser not To dream of all that might have been. And yet our inmost hearts they touch With soft regret or sorrow keen, Those simple words which mean so much, That frequent sigh—It might have been ! SYDNEY GREY. Goin (@) books (E(0)