ed.

"'I rise from beneath the weight of sorrow that covered me so early in
life, to find there is yet much worth living for. I shall live and be
happy.' They were not false tears, the drops that fell on my hand at
parting; and I said, after he had gone:

"'Thank God who giveth me the victory.' My friend expected me to faint
or moan, or make some sign of distress. No, I felt a great joy within,
and I believe he will do better. I inclose to you some verses he sent me
at the time he wrote me the terrible letter of want and despair. They
had their effect, as I told you. Monday I leave for the South; I shall
write you immediately after my return. God bless you all.

Mary."

We read the letter together, Clara, Louis and I--and here is the poetry,
which speaks for itself of the talent this man possessed, and tells us,
as Clara said, how fruitful the soil would have proved if it had been
properly tilled.

I was a poet nerved and strung
Up to the singing pitch you know,
And this since melody first was young
Has evermore been the pitch of woe:
She was a wistful, winsome thing,
Guileless as Eve before her fall,
And as I drew her 'neath my wing--
Wilmur and Mary, that was all.

Oh! how I loved her as she crept
Near and nearer my heart of fire!
Oh! how she loved me as I swept
The master strings of her spirit's lyre!
Oh! with what brooding tenderness
Our low words died in her father's hall,
In the meeting clasp, and parting press--
Wilmur and Mary, that was all!

I was a blinded fool, and worse,
She was whiter than driven snow,
And so one morning the universe
Lost forever its sapphire glow;
Across the land, and across the sea,
I felt a horrible shadow crawl,
A spasm of hell shot over me,
Wilmur and darkness, that was all!

Leagues on leagues of solitude lie,
Dun and dreary between us now,
And in my heart is a terrible cry,
With clamps of iron across my brow.
Never again the olden light--
Ever the sickly, dreadful pall;
I am alone here in the night,
Wilmur and misery, that is all!

For the solemn haze that soon will shine,
For the beckoning hand I soon shall see,
For the fitful glare of the mortal sign
That bringeth surcease of agony,
For the dreary glaze of the dying brain,
For the mystic voice that soon will call,
F