“For that angelic voice,
  Ringing still in my ear,
Has attuned my heart
  To a holier sphere;
And like a caged eagle,
  My soul pines to stay
So long from its home—­
  Its redeemer away.”

O, pale grew that mother,
  And heavy her heart,
For she knew her dear boy
  From her sight must depart,
And be laid, cold and stiff,
  In the earth’s humid breast,
Where the wicked cease troubling,
  The weary have rest;

But she smoothed down his pillow,
  And murmured a prayer,
For the Giver of mercies
  Her loved one to spare;
But ere she had finished
  Her pious request,
His spirit had flown
  To the realms of the blest!

THEN AND NOW.

[MIDNIGHT.]

I love thee, Maude, as I ne’er loved before,
And as I feel I cannot love again;
And though that love has cost me much of pain,
Of agony intense, I would live o’er
Most willingly, each bitter hour I’ve known
Since first we met, to claim thee as my own. 
But mine thou will not be:  thy wayward heart
On one by thee deemed worthier is set,
And I must bear the keen and deathless smart,
Of passion unrequited, or forget
That which is of my very life a part. 
To cherish it may lead to madness, yet
I will brood over it:  for oh,
The joy its memory brings, surpasses far the woe.

[DAYDAWN.]

“I love thee, Maude, as I ne’er loved before,
And as I feel I cannot love again;”
Thus wrote I many moons ago, and more
Devotedly I love thee now, than when
Those lines were written.  But avails it aught? 
Have I return?  Hold I the slightest part
Within the boundless realm of thy confiding heart? 
Or dost thou ever give to me one thought? 
I dare believe so:—­nor will soon resign
The dream I’ve cherished long, that some day thou’lt be mine.

THE NEGLECTED HARP.

I touch not that harp,
  Let it slumber alone;
For its notes but awaken
  Sad memories of one
Whose hand often swept
  The soft wires along,
And aroused them to music,
  To love, and to song.

But Death, the destroyer,
  Ere grief threw a ray
O’er her flowery path,
  Snatched her rudely away;
And the harp that resounded,
  With loveliest tone,
To her delicate touch,
  Has since slumbered alone.

Then awake not a strain—­
  Let it still repose there,
And be breathed on alone
  By the sweet summer air;
For its numbers though lively,
  Though joyous and light,
But cast o’er my spirits
  A wildering blight.

ALONE.

    Never, no nevermore,
Shall thy soft hand be pressed in mine,
Or on my breast thy weary head recline,
    As oft of yore.