Upon an unclosed wound; and memories start
Fearful as specters from beneath the pall
Of the unburied dead! no more, no more!
Never say aught again to me of bliss,
Since it is coupled with the empty lore
Of earth's vain love—away, away with this."
"Miriam, hush! it frightens me to mark
The chilling sternness of thy tone and look:
Thine eye hath grown so clear, and bright, and dark,
Its thrilling glance mine own can hardly brook.
Speak not thus, sister; Sybil's love is true.
And there are others of strong faith, and sure;
For 'mid the false of earth, a very few
Still keep their trust holy, and high, and pure."
"There may be yet a few, and may it be
Thy blessed fate to meet them in thy life;
But I reck not for any, for to me
All life is weariness—all passion strife.
Yet place thy hand upon my heart and feel
How wildly rushes life's impatient tide;
But let it chafe! it has no power to steal
The strength away of a yet mightier pride.
"Sybil, thy years are few, and mine are so,
Yet have I learned what yet you have not known,
And I pray God that you may never know;
But thou didst catch the low, half-smothered moan,
Breathed by a spirit weary of its chains—
Pining in bondage of a scornful will,
That will not listen to its sad complains,
But sternly chides, and bids its voice be still."
"O Miriam, Miriam! has the withering blight
Of some chill frost fell on thy heart's sweet flowers,
Freezing the dew-drop that so pure and bright
Nurtured their bloom in thy life's sunny hours?
