the fated hour approach,
Nor quailed before the pangs of death to give
Our living love to a fond father's kiss:
Smiling I placed him in thy arms--then died.
The songs of angels wooed me high above,
But my firm soul refused to leave its loves!
I won the boon from heaven to hover near,
To count the palpitations of thy heart,
And speak, unseen, to thee in varied ways.
I breathed to thee in music's plaintive tones,
I floated round thee in the breath of flowers,
I wooed thee in the poet's tender page,
And through the blue eyes of our orphaned child
I gazed upon thee with the buried love
So fraught with faith and haunting memories.
With spirit power I ranged the world of thought
To twine thee with the blue 'Forget me not!'

* * * *

Oh, God! thine eye seeks now a fresher face,
Thy voice has won another's earnest love,
Her head rests on the heart once pledged to me,
And I have poured my worship on the dust!
He loves again, and yet I gave him all--
Been proud--is this 'the worm that never dies?'
Ah, what am I?--a ruined wreck adrift
Upon a surging sea of endless pain!
Are human hearts all fickle, faithless, base?
Does levity brand all of mortal race?
When we shall meet within the Spirit's land,
How wilt thou bear my sorrow, my despair?
Wilt strive to teach me there thy new-found lore--
Forgetfulness? I could not learn the task!
Wilt seek to link again our broken ties?
Away! I would not stoop my haughty brow
To thing so false as thou! I love--yet scorn!
We give ourselves with purity but once;
The love of soul yields not to change of state;
Heaven's life news the broken ties of earth;
There is no death! all that has _truly_ lived,
Lives ever; feeling cannot die; it blooms
Immortal as the soul from which it springs!
Why do I shrink to own the bitter truth?
_I never have been loved--'twas mockery all!_'

* * * *

Thus sang the tortured spirit, while the chant
Of the new bridal filled the quivering air.
The ring of gold upon the finger placed,
The girlish blushes, the groom's joyous smile,
Told all was over, and the crowd dispersed:
But the high face of the wrung spirit pressed
Upon my heart, haunting me with its woe.
What was her doom? Was she midst penal fires,
Whose flames must burn away t