I turn from brighter things, to bless
Thee, in thine utter loneliness!

The world may have a healing power

O'er gentle hearts—when hearts are breaking,
And time may rear some future flower
To soothe away the spirit's aching;-

And kindly tones and smiling eyes

May deck the coming hours with gladness, And other hopes and friends arise,

Like sunlight, o'er the bosom's sadness;

Yes, age may chase each burning tear,

But not one thought that made thee dear!

And oft shall memory turn to weep,

As visions of the buried past,

Like dreams that haunt the mourner's sleep,

Along my soul their beauty cast ;

Oft shall the form we loved-in vain—

Twined with thy fair and silken tress,

H

146

TO A BRAID OF HAIR.

Come dimly stealing back again,
In youth's unclouded loveliness,
With all the thoughts of other days
That mingle in thy mystic maze!

As that lone harp that only tells
Its story to the wandering wind,—
Though sad its music sinks and swells,—
Yet, leaves a nameless joy behind;
So, thou shalt touch on many a string
That, in the heart, has long been broken,
Yet peace shall o'er the spirit spring
Before thy tale, thou lonely token!
And thou shalt shed a holy rest,
A fast of feeling through the breast!

When life and love grow dark and dim,
And friends are cold, and youth is past,
My soul shall turn to thee,-and him
Whose love was changeless, to the last!

Years had not shed their withering blight
Upon the freshness of his truth,

Nor sorrow put one ray to flight

That scattered gladness o'er his youth;
Hope in his web her garlands wove,
And all his blessed lot was love!

He died a pure and stainless thing!
The taint of sin-the touch of grief
Had flung no fetter on a wing

Whose flight was sunny all-as brief!

Ere slander uttered, by his tongue,

The words that worse than arrows wound,

Or coldness round his spirit hung

The thoughts that speak-without a sound !--

Oh! happy in his early bloom,

But happier in his early tomb!

Time was, each breeze that wandered by

Could wave thee on thy native brow;

148

TO A BRAID OF HAIR.

The rudest storm that sweeps

the sky

O'er thee- and him-is powerless, now!
He ne'er shall know the bitter smart

Of nursing dreams,-to weep, in waking,
Nor feel that loneliness of heart

For which there is no cure-but breaking !—
There had not been one cloud, to stain

That sun which ne'er may shine, again!

Lie near my heart, thou lonely thing!—
Thou all that love had power to save !—
And thou shalt feed the hopes that spring,
The flowers that blossom, from the grave.
Round thee shall dwell no thought of gloom,
But fancy learn in thee to read

A message from the spirit's home,

A token from the silent dead !—

The cold may frown,—the kind depart,—

Lie thou, for ever, near my heart!

ELLEN.

I STOOD with Ellen, where the stream
Flowed through a dark and lonely wild,
Ungilded by one sunny gleam,
And murmuring like a fretted child;
And, as I watched its rapid chase,
I whispered that-unlike that river,—
Our love should have a smoother race,
But like its waters,-flow for ever!