Poems

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OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

Circleville Watchman.

"The sentiment that runs through the whole work, is elevating and instructive. There is a sweet spirit and depth of imagination in every sentence, that at once, places the authoress in the front rank of the first poets of the age."

A Legend of the South

S.

The columbine and lupine wreathed Garlands, which fragrance only breathed; And birds of every hue and wing, Gayly amid the flowerets sing. No dreary winter visits here, But spring, sweet spring-time, all the year. And now my strain is sung to thee, I'll tell a tale as told to me:—

'Tis said, amid those lovely wilds A lonely hermit dwells, Apart from man, and shunning all, To none his tale he tells.

'Tis told by those who near him live. That many years before, He came from Italy's fair clime, And sought our Western shore.

Cleft in the hollow of a rock, His lonely home is made; The wild vines wreathe their tendrils round, And form a vernal shade.

At early morn he seeks for game, For well he loves the chase, The red deer trembles when he sees The time-worn hermit's face.

And oft he climbs the loftiest steeps, Where soaring eagles feed, To gaze upon a stormy sky, As if he sought to read

The destiny of one so strange, Self-exiled from his home— An alien from his own sweet land, Amid our shades to roam.

A poet and an artist, he Dwelt 'neath his native sky; Amid those glorious works of art Too beautiful to die.

Fame and ambition made for him A halo round his brow; Alas, for all those lovely dreams! Where have they flown to, now?

He loved—it is a simple tale, And one that's often told; For she he loved was beautiful, And rich in lands and gold.

The daughter of a lordly Louse, A Baron's only pride— For whose fair hand the proudest peers Of many a realm had sighed.

'Twas in his studio first they met: Her friends had brought her there, To see if art could picture forth A sculptured form so fair.

With trembling hand and heart of fire, He sought her form to trace; But ah, despair was on his brow, For who could give that face?—

The heavenly beauty of the mind, The spirit's sparkling light, The eye whose gentle radiance shone, Soft as the stars of night.

Enshrined within his heart of hearts Each look of hers now lay— A breath of summer o'er his soul, Too soon to pass away.

<>PART SECOND.

'Tis night, a night in Italy: How to the mind it brings Bright visions of that lovely land's All high and glorious things!

'Neath a myrtle and an orange grove, On a bed of violets sweet, Salt this gentle high-born maiden, With the artist at her feet.

The sunlight from the mountains Had faded quite away, And the misty shades of evening Were gathering thick and gray,

When from Her father's castle That maiden fair was seen To glide, with noiseless footsteps, Along the shadowy green.

Is this the Baron's daughter, The peerless Isabel, Who wanders in the moonlight Alone by lake and fell?

Her lover's watching for her, He's waited for her long, With a heart of burning eloquence, And lips and tone of song.

And oh! what wondrous tenderness Is falling from his tongue, And with what fond and earnest faith Unto his words she clung.

"Love me ever," said the maiden, And her voice was soft and low, Like the sighing of the south winds Amid the myrtle's bough.

<>PART THIRD.

Grim and silent, in the moonlight, An ancient chapel stood, Where dwelt a priestly anchorite— The humble and the good.

With swift and quiet footsteps The lovers bent their way, Ah! toward this ruined chapel, Guided by the moon's soft ray.

They have passed the lonely threshold, The holy man is there, Before him is a crucifix, Beside, a book of prayer.

There's a deadly pallor resting Upon the maiden's brow, As they kneel with pious fervor, To take the solemn vow

That binds them to each other. The words were scarcely said, When through the vaulted chapel Rang a voice as from the dead—

"Forbear, forbear, my children!" All turned in wild alarm, And, lo! beside the doorway Stood a proud and noble form.

The face was deeply shaded, But amid the gathering gloom, The maiden knew her father, By the waving of his plume.

"Forbear!" again he uttered, And his voice was stern and deep, "Let thy words be all unspoken, That vow thou must not keep.

"Ye are both, O God! my children, The same by birth and name— Thine, thine will be the anguish, But mine has been the shame."

Then he told how he had wandered To a distant land away, To a fair and smiling valley, Called the Valley of Glenstray;

Where he wooed an humble maiden, And won her for his bride; Fearing his father's anger, But more his mother's pride,

He had wedded her in secret; They had never told the tale, Though his gentle bride grew sorrowful While her brow grew sad and pale.

The beautiful and timid girl Drooped daily by his side, Yet still he would not claim her As his own, his wedded bride.

But the Friend unto the wretched Came swiftly to her aid, And soon all quietly she slept Within the church-yard's shade.

But ere she died, she'd given Unto his arms a son— "Thou, thou," exclaimed the father, "Art that wronged, forsaken one!"

Pale, pale as death, the maiden Sank fainting to the floor, While with wild and speechless agony Her brother bent him o'er.

That face of matchless beauty, That fair and fragile form, Lay like a blighted lily Smitten by a sudden storm.

Oh who can tell the agony That filled that brother's breast, As on his sister's snowy brow One holy kiss he prest!

Then turned away all sorrowful, All sorrowful and lone, Bound to a far-off distant land, Forever from his own.

And soon within a noble ship, Upon a bounding sea, He came unto our own fair land, The beautiful, the free!

And here upon our Southern shore, Where breezes softly play, 'Mid orange bowers almost as fair As those of Italy.

Cleft in the hollow of a rock, His lonely home is made; The wild vines wreathe their tendrils round, And form a vernal shade.

Scotland

Not to the wealthy or the great, Doth intellect belong,— The poet in his low thatched cot Can pour his soul in song.

And while I for a model seek, Mine eve instinctive turns, And fondly wreathed around my heart, I find the name of Burns.

Who does not love the author well, Of that enchanting tune, Which sweetly steals across the heart— The "Braes o' Bonnie Doon?"

I loved it in my happier hours; I love it better now; Since I, like that lone one, have learned To mourn a broken vow.

And should my fancy seek to rove 'Mid scenes of beauty wild, I'd turn to thee, thou gifted Scot! Fair Scotia's darling child!

Should warriors, too, engross my pen, And claim from me their due, I'd twine a wreath for gallant Bruce, And one for Wallace too.

Sure, bolder chieftains never trod, E'en on our own loved shore, Than they, with belt and tartan plaid, Their Highland heather o'er.

Statesmen! the mighty Mansfield stands A pattern for you all; A nobler voice was never heard In council or in hall.

Divines! you too may emulate The Covenanter's zeal; Who seeks, by penitence and tears, His every sin to heal.

Behold in burrows of the earth, With fasting and with care, The persecuted Christian kneels, And lifts his soul in prayer.

In this religion has he lived,— His purposes are high,— And like his gentle, captive Queen, For it he'd even die.

Lament for the late Nathaniel M'Lain

tpp|LAMENT| <>FOR THE LATE NATHANIEL M'LAIN.

<>INSCRIBED TO HIS SISTER, MRS. MILTON M. HALE.

>><< {smaller} "That soldier had stood on the battle-plain,

Where every step was over the slain;

But the brand and the ball had passed him by,

And he came to his native land—to die."—L. E. L.

>><< My brother! O my brother!

My soul is sad to-night:

I'm thinking of the fatal news—

The dark and withering blight—

That fell upon my spirit,

When on lightning wings it sped,

And told me thou, beloved one,

Wert sleeping with the dead.

When rang the deadly clarion

Beneath a southern sky,

Thou, thou wert there, my brother,

To dare, to do, or die;

|e=follow

Yea, ever 'mid the thickest fight— The bravest of the brave— Willing to share a soldier's fate, Or fill a soldier's grave.

But thou wert spared amid it all, To see thy home once more; Yea, borne on Neptune's friendly waves, Didst reach thy native shore: And loving friends, and tender ones, Came forth thy steps to greet,— Oh, it was joy, the dearest joy, Those early friends to meet!

Our gray-haired sire beside thee stood, While pride thrilled through his breast, Murmured thy name in tender tones— And, brother, thou wert blest: Our mother, too, oh! who can tell The deep unselfish love That thrilled each fiber of her soul, As angels thrill above!

But not for me, oh! not for me, To look upon thy face,— Only the mournful task is mine, This record sad to trace: For now, O brother of my soul! From earth thou'st passed away, And that warm, generous heart of thine, Lies 'neath the cold, cold clay.

In sable garb, with saddened step, And sadly-waving plume, They laid thee with thy young renown, Low in the silent tomb; With laurels fresh upon thy brow, They laid thee down to rest Within thine own dear native land— Fair Valley of the West!

Our father's joy is turned to grief; Our mother's hopes have fled; The visions that we cherished, all Like withered leaves lie dead:

And she, the chosen of thy heart, The tender and the true, Has gazed her last upon thy face, And wept her last adieu.

Yet vain our sorrows, vain our tears; Though never vain the spell That lingers round a sister's heart, When she has said farewell To one, who e'en from childhood's hour Has grown up by her side, From all its witching tenderness, To manhood's joyous pride.

Then bid me not to dry my tears. Nor bid me cease to mourn,— The deep, deep love that stirs my soul, With life's first breath was born. Brother! the memory of thy worth Shall live within my breast, And point me to that sacred home, Where thou hast found a rest.

The Indian's Bride

tpp|THE INDIAN'S BRIDE.| {smaller} Holy and pure are the drops that fall, When the young bride goes from her father's hall: She goes unto love yet untried and new— She parts from love which hath still been true." >>Mrs. Hemans. >><< "Oh! bind the bridal veil," she said,

"Sweet sister, on my brow,

And let me to the altar go,

To take the sweetest vow

"That ever passed from woman's lips,

Or thrilled through woman's breast;—

Without it, love is but a dream,

And life is all unblest."

|e=stanza

Gently the bridal veil was bound Amid those tresses fair, Which hung, like rays of golden light, So beautiful they were,

Around the maiden's sylph-like form,— So full of perfect grace, You'd rarely see so fair a form, With such a lovely face.

The high, fair brow, the loving lips, The sad, yet tender eyes, Whose color only could be matched By heaven's own azure dyes.

And then the small fair hands were clasped; The maiden knelt in prayer; And her sweet voice went floating out Like music on the air.

But strange the contrast!—he who stood To claim her for his bride, A dark-browed Indian Chief was he, The forest's fear and pride.

What wild emotion moved his heart? Say, should we call it love, That brought the eagle from of high To mate him with the dove?

Was there no maiden of his tribe, No dark-eyed, dusky one, Who dwelt within his native wilds On toward the setting sun,

Could bear his burden by his side?— With him the hills could roam?— And dress for him the mountain deer, And tend his forest home?

But must he woo this lovely flower From Albion's distant shore, To wither 'neath a foreign sky, And pine in sorrow sore?

What will she, with her costly gems, That she has worn with pride? The feather and the shell were best To deck the Red Man's bride.

What will she, for her happy home, Where peace and plenty smile? Oh, cruel was the heart, methinks, That could her steps beguile!

And when the wild romance is past— The foolish dream is o'er— Will she not think upon the home Which she shall see no more?

Will not her mother's voice, at eve. Steal 'mid those woods so dim, Borne on the fragrance of the breeze, Soft as a vesper hymn?

Her sister's, too,—the gentle girl, Who bound the flowerets fair, While tear-drops fell, like glittering pearls, Amid her golden hair?

And her fond father,—he who strove, In tones of choking woe, To bless His darling ere he bade— Ah, Badly bade—her go,

To cheer the Indian's wigwam rude, Far o'er the shadowy main, Leaving behind fond precious hopes She ne'er can know again.

The Captive Queen

tpp|THE CAPTIVE QUEEN.| {smaller} I was the Queen o' bonnie France,

"Where happy I hae been;

Fu' lightly rose I in the morn,

As blithe lay down at e'en:

And I'm the Sovereign of Scotland,

And mony a traitor there,

Yet here I lie, in foreign hands,

And never-ending care."—Burns

>><< She sat alone—yes, all alone—within that gloomy tower, For she, though young and beautiful, had felt oppression's power; She had each lovely attribute that ladies ever prize, The sylph-like form, the fairy step, the bright and starry eyes.

And ne'er a loftier intellect had fallen to woman's lot; A fame, that malice tried in vain on which to fix a blot. The sun threw out its gorgeous rays o'er mount, and vale, and hill. And seemed the very earth and air with joyousness to fill. |e=stanza

But though it shed its genial rays, no joy could it impart, To soothe the agony and care that weighed the Captive's heart; She gazed upon the glorious scene through bitter, blinding tears, And hurriedly her mind went back to earlier, happier years.

But where were now those happy hours, the step and spirit free?— The thousand warriors, who had deemed it pride to bend the knee To one so good and beautiful, the Dauphin's gentle bride, Heir of fair Scotia's royal crown, and France a dower beside?

Where were ye, lords of Scotland, all, and gentlemen of France? Why came ye not, with valorous hearts, to break for her a lance? And where were ye, ye courtly dames, in proud and rich array, Who dwelt within your Sovereign's court, and owned her gentle sway?

And Murray, thou of princely blood, near to the royal line, Hadst thou no offering to lay upon thy sister's shrine? Did no avenging spirit wake within thy haughty breast? Or didst thou coldly fold thine arms, as faithless as the rest?

No answer!—let thy silence tell thy perjury and shame! Ambition lured thee, but thou ne'er didst wear a wreath of fame;— Ambition lured thee on to dwell amid thy sister's foes, Forgetful of her kindred ties, forgetful of her woes;

Forgetful of her tender care, her too confiding love, A sovereign's wrongs, a sister's tears, could not thy pity move. But by a woman thou wert made, in after years, to feel,— For't was her hand which armed with death the dread assassin's steel.

Thou, who so recklessly upon another's rights hadst trod, Saw thine own name go down in death, in darkness, and in blood!

But, Mary, in thy darkest hour some happiness was thine; For thou didst lay thy trusting heart upon a holy shrine.

For though thine was an erring faith, 'twas beautiful to see Thy steadfast love, thy earnest zeal, thy tender constancy; All Europe looked with pitying eyes upon thy closing fate, And mourned for Scotland's Royal Flower—the lone, the desolate!

Apostrophe to the Mississippi

tpp|APOSTROPHE TO THE MISSISSIPPI.|

<>inscribed to mrs. h. truesdell.

{smaller} To a kindred spirit these lines belong— A daughter of Genius, a child of Song." >>Byrona. >><< As on thy waters now I gaze,

Another by my side

Follows, with sad and tearful eye,

Thy dark and turbid tide.

A widowed heart it is that bends

In grief beside me here,—

A heart bereft, in early youth.

Of all it held most dear.

|e=stanza

And thou, engulfing waters, thou Didst rob this sorrowing one— Didst snatch the idol from its shrine, And leave the heart alone.

Scarce had the bridal flowers grown pale, Which loving hands had wreathed,— Scarce had the husband's tender vows In happiness been breathed,—

Ere from the altar he had reared, That shrine of love—a home, The guardian of that temple dear By cruel fate was torn.

He trusted to thy treacherous waves, Thou dark, uncertain stream; But of the fearful doom thou'dst planned. How little did he dream!

'Twas sounding still upon his ear— Love's fond and last adieu; And, as each wave still bore him on, The absent dearer grew.

He gazed on thee, and thought, perchance, Of bliss till now unknown; When thy relentless billows part, And claim him for thine own.

The bridal wreath so fondly worn, Was withered in an hour,— Crushed by a fearful weight of woe, There lay a tender flower.

The fragrance of that opening flower, Was given to the morn, And ere the evening sun was low, Its sweet perfume was gone.

The mournful cypress now replaced The lovely orange wreath; And sable robes were gathered close This emblem sad beneath.

An emblem fit it was to wear,— For truthfully it spoke; A loving nature has been crushed— A gentle spirit broke.

Sorrowing stranger! mingling tears Are flowing fast with thine: Would they could thy spirit heal— These heart-felt tears of mine! >>Byrona.

Reply to Byrona

But not more lonely is the grave Of him for whom I pine, Than are these faded hopes which still Round early memories twine.

Ten years! ten long and weary years, Passed like a scroll away, Since last I stood upon that spot, Upon that fatal day.

I'm gazing on a manly form, And on a manly face, And clasped, with all a husband's love, In one long, fond embrace.

And words of tenderness are breathed— Of happiness and home, And promises that ne'er again, From that dear ark he'd roam.

Ah, well didst thou define each thought, That dwelt in that fond breast! For when apart from those he loved, His spirit found no rest.

But back again lie would have come, To quiet every fear, And with his tender, loving tones, His household band to cheer.

But though we looked with anxious hearts, And tearful eyes, 'twas vain; Relentless death had severed us,— We never met again.

Now thanks, kind stranger, for each word, Each thought, that thou hast penned, And thanks for all thy sympathy, My loved and gifted friend.

Ode to Friendship

tpp|ODE TO FRIENDSHIP.| {smaller} Friendship above all ties doth bind the heart; And faith in friendship is the noblest part." >>Earl of Orrery—Henry the Fifth. >><< Let those who scoff at Friendship's name, For others ne'er profess a flame

Which they can never feel.

Sure friendship's near akin to love; 'Tis cherished by the saints above,

And recognized in heaven.

Oh, I have felt its gentle power; It soothed me in the bitterest hour

Of anguish and of strife.

When worn with sorrow and with care, I've turned and found a solace there,

Naught else on earth could give.

The Return

tpp|THE RETURN.| {smaller} "I looked again—the wanderer had returned." >>Byron. >><< Room for the loved one! room once more!—

He has come again to his native shore;

He has come at last from the bounding sea,

With a spirit light, with a spirit free:

There's a thrill in his heart, of rapture wild,

Like the gushing tones of a joyous child.

He is pausing now by the hawthorn shade,

The favorite haunt where his childhood played;

Where he used to stand, with a glistening eye,

And list to the sea's wild lullaby:

For even there, by that shelly strand,

Did he dream of a far-off stranger land.

|e=stanza

Oh! that stranger land had charms for him, As he seemed to look through the future dim; The gentle breath of a classic land Seemed to fan his cheek with its breezes bland, And on Fancy's wings he was bounding free, A mariner o'er an "untroubled sea."

That time is passed, that dream proved true; He has plowed old Neptune's waters blue; He has looked on Venice, the proud, the free, Where she sits in her glory, fair "Bride of the Sea," And traversed the shores of sunny France, Bright land of beauty and romance!—

And paused, where the moonlight softly lay On the ancient walls of the Alhambra,— Where the last, last sigh of the sad Moor stole Like a knell of death to a parting soul: But that time has passed, he has ceased to roam, And come at last to his native home.

And ne'er has he looked on a fairer sight, Than his father's house in the softened light; And the lowly cottage, just beside,— The humble home of his plighted bride, Where she's kept her faith for many years, And looked for his coming through dimming tears.

A Tale without a Name

tpp|A TALE WITHOUT A NAME.| {smaller} Marriage is a matter of more worth, Than to be dealt in by attorneyship." >>Shakspeare—Henry IV. >><< Morn's earliest rays had tinged the tree-tops "With their golden hue; when a fond mother Sought the couch whereon her child reposed. "Awake, my Alice! awake!" she cried, "To happiness: it is thy bridal morn! The sun comes out with gorgeous splendor, As though it sought to make more glad this happy day. Dost mark how proudly even now its crimson Glories rest on yonder hillock fair, where Stands thy future home? When eve shall come, thou Wilt be mistress of the proudest mansion |e=follow

In this proud city—the envy of the London world. Slaves at thy bidding then will Come; broad lands and manors fair be thine; and More than this, the deep, abiding love of One, whom many sought, but sought in vain, To win. Dost hear me not, my daughter?"

Gently The maiden started from her sleep, with such A look of radiant happiness upon Her face, the mother's conscience ceased a Moment to reproach. But, ah! 'twas but A transient gleam—the meteor's ray. With Her soft hand she put aside the curls that Clustered round her brow of snowy whiteness, And in a tone of deep and touching sadness Said—"Why didst thou wake me, mother? I in dreams had wandered far away, to my Sweet childhood's home. I stood beside the fount, Whose limpid waters gushed and bubbled At my feet; and by my side was Herbert Gray, My childhood's playmate—the dear companion Of my later youth; and hand in hand we

Roved together 'mid the sweets that scent My native vale: and he did gaze so fondly In my face, and clasp my hand so tenderly In his, I feel the pressure of it yet. But, ah! 'twas but a dream!" And tears, those Swift, unbidden messengers of grief, dimmed Her soft pleading eyes.

The mother's brow grew dark. "What! tears upon thy bridal morn? they ill Become thee: thou shouldst be a woman now, and Lay aside all childish things." "Oh! chide me Not, my mother; but let me still weep on: To-morrow, though my heart should break, I must Not shed a tear."

Morn on her rosy wings went by; The noon's hot, scorching rays had sunk into The quiet shades of eve, when the bride-maidens Sought the gentle bride. But when they came unto Her room, they marveled much to find she Was not there: they sought, but sought in vain; they Called, but Echo only answered back

The call. The father's brow grew dark with grief; The mother wept aloud; and the stern bridegroom Muttered something of woman's faithlessness,— When, lo! a note was brought. 'Twas signed by Herbert Gray; and read—"We two have grown together, With such fond and earnest faith,—have loved each other With such holy love, to sunder us is death. . . . ." And when he spoke of Alice, his sweet bride, He said—"The primrose better loves the shade, The violet seeks a sheltered dell, And there unfolds its sweets." One trembling line Was writ by Alice' hand: and when the parents Read it, ambition died within their hearts, And they acknowledged there, before their guests, Limits to parental law; for though a parent May restrain his child, he must not barter Her for gold.

The Vow

Thou foolish one! thou canst not know How fondly thou art loved, Or thou wouldst never doubt mo so, When faithful I have proved.

Say, wouldst thou never have me smile But when I smile on thee? Nor seek thy absence to beguile, When friends are kind to me?

Wouldst have me coldly turn away, And slight those friends so true? Nor ever have a single thought, But what I give to you?

Then be it so! I'll love thee still, With more than woman's love; Though all unkind must be thy will, By tenderness I'll prove

That thou art all in all to me,— The dearest and the best,— I only wish thy smiles to see, And I am more than blest.

The Rustic Maiden to her Lover

tpp|THE RUSTIC MAIDEN TO HER LOVER.| {smaller} "Our love it ne'er was reckoned,

Yet good it is, and true;

I'ts half the world to me, dear,

It's all the world to you."—Hood.

>><< I have loved thee with a love

That can know no change;

And with thee, through distant lands,

Oft in fancy range.

I have pictured to myself

A lone, but lovely spot,—

With honeysuckle twined around,

A neat and simple cot.

|e=stanza

Far away from noise and strife. Ambition, pomp, and pride, Happily would our days pass on, Sweet the moments glide

I my household work would do, Watch thy home with care, And make thine every sorrow light By sympathy and prayer.

And when at eve thy work was done, I'd sit and sing to thee Songs of our own loved mountain home, Far o'er the deep blue sea.

Or else, perchance, I'd mind thee of The talks we'd had together, And many little pleasant walks, In pleasant summer weather.

With friends who then were far away, That we had left behind, But whose loved images still dwelt Imprinted on each mind.

Oh! who would ask a happier lot? I would not change it now For all the bright and glittering gems That deck a monarch's brow.

For well the great Philosopher Of poets truly said, A "golden sorrow" is their lot, Encircled round their head.

You think that I must weep, to leave The home I love so well;— The deep devotion of her heart, A maiden may not tell.

Long as the object of her love Is worthy in her eyes, She never dreams that she can make Too great a sacrifice.

And when unto the Western wilds I go, thy home to bless, Thou then perhaps will learn the depth Of woman's tenderness.

But I have written quite enough, For thy fond eyes to see The weakness of thine Amy's heart,— So now good night to thee!

Stanzas sacred to the Memory of Samuel Millikan

And oft will the stranger's careless foot Pass the lone and sad spot by, Nor think of one who came so far From his native land—to die!

Oh, sad was the day and fatal the hour, When his spirit sighed to roam; When he turned from the dear and sacred joys, That clustered around his home!

The Sick Child's Lament

"I thought that, robed in spotless white,— A crown upon my head,— Surrounded by a fairy band Of children,—I was led

"By a tall figure, clothed in black— A scepter in his hand, And every one to whom he spoke Sprang forth at his command.

"He led us on through darksome scenes, And damp unwholesome air; And then there burst upon my sight, A scene so heavenly fair—

"A city, all of purest gold, Set round with radiant gems, And, every place I looked, I saw Ten thousand diadems;

"And countless numbers tuned their harps, In strains of music sweet; And angels, bearing golden lyres, Came forth our steps to greet.

"They led us to a lofty throne, Of ivory and gold:— But, ah! the beauty of that place Must still be all untold;

"For could my childish lips assume An angel's heavenly tone, Fruitless and vain my words would prove, And useless be the loan.

"Then wonder not I 'm sorrowful, And have been so all day; For though I love my own dear home, I fain would always stay

"Amid those scenes so beautiful, So gladdening to the eye: But, ere I reach that lofty home, Dear mother, I must die."

The mother's cheek grew deadly pale, Her eyes were filled with tears, She placed her hand upon her heart, As stifling all her fears;

But when she spoke, her words were calm As an unruffled stream, And gentle, tender, pure and kind As her own loved one's dream:—

"Thy prayer is heard, my beautiful, My loving one and bright! Thy lips to me too soon will breathe Their last—yes, last 'Good night!'"

"Yes, mother, for I hear again The music softly flow, And see the angels beckon me,— I 'm weary, and would go

"To join that high and holy throng "Who worship there above,— One kiss, dear mother! 'tis the last, Last pledge of earthly love!"