“An angel’s hand was laid upon my head—­
There in the moonlight stood my own Pauline—­
Angel of love and hope and holy faith—­
She flashed upon me bowed in bitter grief,
As falls the meteor down the night-clad heavens—­
In silence.  Then about my neck she clasped
Her loving arms and on my shoulder drooped
Her golden tresses, while her silent tears
Fell warm upon my cheek like summer rain. 
Heart clasped to heart and cheek to cheek we sat;
The moon no longer gloomed—­her face was cheer;
The rugged hills were old-time friends again;
The peaceful river slept beneath the moon,
And my pet lamb came bounding to our side
And kissed her hand and mine as he was wont. 
Then I awoke as from a dream and said: 
’Tell me, beloved, why you come to me
In this dark hour—­so late—­so desolate?’
And she replied: 

“’My darling, can I rest
While you are full of sorrow?  In my ear
A spirit seemed to whisper—­“Arise and go
To comfort him disconsolate.”  Tell me, Paul,
Why should you mourn your tender life away? 
I will be mother to you; nay, dear boy,
I will be more.  Come, brush away these tears.’

“My heart was full; I kissed her pleading eyes: 
‘You are an angel sent by one in heaven,’
I said,’to heal my heart, but I have lost
More than you know.  The cruel hand of death
Hath left me orphan, friendless—­poor indeed,
Saving the precious jewel of your love. 
And what to do?  I know not what to do,
I feel so broken by a heavy hand. 
My mother hoped that I would work my way
To competence and honor at the bar. 
But shall I toil in poverty for years
To learn a science that so seldom yields
Or wealth or honor save to silvered heads? 
I know that path to fame and fortune leads
Through thorns and brambles over ragged rocks;
But can I follow in the common path
Trod by the millions, never to lift my head
Above the busy hordes that delve and drudge
For bare existence in this bitter world—­
And be a mite, a midge, a worthless worm,
No more distinguished from the common mass
Than one poor polyp in the coral isle
Is marked amid the myriads teeming there? 
Yet ’tis not for myself.  For you, Pauline,
Far up the slippery heights of wealth and fame
Would I climb bravely; but if I would climb
By any art or science, I must train
Unto the task my feet for many years,
Else I should slip and fall from rugged ways,
Too badly bruised to ever mount again.’ 
Then she: 

“’O Paul, if wealth were mine to give! 
O if my father could but know my heart! 
But fear not, Paul, our Father reigns in heaven. 
Follow your bent—­’twill lead you out aright;
The highest mountain lessens as we climb;
Persistent courage wins the smile of fate. 
Apply yourself to law and master it,
And I will wait.  This sad and solemn hour