it will yearn,
And in my bosom's innermost recess,
Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burn
With a wild strength which nothing can repress!
Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the cold
And heavy clay--clod mingle with her mould?

Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom,
Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move,
I trace the lineaments of one to whom
My soul was wedded in an early love,--
'Twas in my boyhood; but the insatiate tomb
Claimed her fair form, and for the realms above
Her spirit fled the earth; oh! how I wept
That mine should in its bondage still be kept.

I mind the hour I stood beside the clay
I had so loved in life--it still was fair,
Surpassing fair, in death; and as she lay
With the thick tresses of her long dark hair
Gathered above the brow whence feeling's ray
Had fled, because death's shadow darkened there,
Her more than earthly beauty made her seem
The incarnation of some pure bright dream.

I stood and gazed: the pale grave sheet was wound
About the form from which life's spark was fled,
For ever fled,--wet eyes were weeping round,
And voices full of sorrow mourned the dead;
I could not weep; a sadness more profound
Than that from which those heart-drops, tears, are shed,
Was in my soul,--for then the icy spell
Of desolation freezing o'er me fell.

And from that hour I have been alone,
Alone when crowds were round me. May thy fate
Be coloured with a brighter hue, and strown
With flowers where mine is thorns;--where mine is hate,
And strife, and bitter discord, may thine own
Be love, and hope, and peace--for these create
The sunshine of existence; may their light
Beam ever round thee, warm, and glad, and bright.

THE LOCK OF HAIR.

It is in sooth a lovely tress,
Still curled in many a ring,
As glossy as the plumes that dress
The raven's jetty wing.
And the broad and soul-illumined brow,
Above whose arch it grew,
Was like the stainless mountain snow,
In its purity of hue.

I mind the time 'twas given to me,
The night, the hour, the spot;
And the eye that pleaded silently,
"Forget the giver not."
Oh! myriads of stars, on high,
Were smiling sweetly fair,