Reminds him of that roseate brow,—now pale,
And bloodless for his sake.—The evening star
Restores those blissful walks,—when first he found
That Heaven, as with a wreath of Eden's flowers,
Had bound their sympathies.—The full-orb'd moon
Reveals upon her silver page, those hours
So exquisite to thought,—when speech was sighs;
And new-born Love, like some fair infant roused
From pictured dreams, mingled the timid tear
With the soft certainty of waking bliss.—
Perchance, close-wrapt in the still arms of night,
The lover, when no prying eye is near,
Draws from his bosom's cell, a shining tress,
And presses to his lips; or o'er the brow
Fresh from the pencil of the artist, hangs
And thinks of her, whose prayer may never rise
Without his name. Yet there 's a sex in hearts,
One loves with strong and passionate embrace;
The other trusts its all,—stakes life on love,—
With deathless ardour clasps one idol-prop,
And in its breaking,—breaks.
THE FUNERAL.
I saw a dark-robed train, who sadly bare
A lifeless burden toward the house of God.
I enter'd there,—for I had heard 'twas good
To see the end of man. Then slowly woke
The organ's dirge-like strain,—soft—solemn—sweet;—
