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THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.
From its keen soulless air, and in thy heart,
Found ever the sweet fountain of response,
To quench my thirst for home!
The dear work grows
Beneath my hand,—the last!
Teresa, (falling on his neck in tears.)
Eugene, Eugene!
Break not my heart with thine excess of love!—
Oh! must I lose thee—thou that hast been still
The tenderest—best—
Eugene. Weep, weep not thus, belov'd!
Let my true heart o'er thine retain its power
Of soothing to the last!—Mine own Teresa!
Take strength from strong affection!—Let our souls,
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boon—
Our perfect love!—Oh ! blessed have we been
In that high gift! Thousands o'er earth may pass
With hearts unfreshen'd by the heavenly dew,
