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Hath gazed upon the more than mortal tears,
Why weeps Titania ?-have her dreams, to night,
Spirit of this western flower !
Sink into my lady's breast,
Spirit! do my bidding well!
BY ALARIC A. WATTS.
The gloom that wraps my soul away;
That best beseems this hallowed day: Fain would my yearning heart be gay,–
Its wonted welcome breathe to thine ; But sighs come blended with my lay,
And tears of anguish blot the line !
I cannot sing, as once I sung
Our bright and cheerful hearth beside; When gladness swayed my heart and tongue,
And looks of fondest love replied :-
We heeded not its outward din,
So all was calm and fair within!
We are not what we were of yore;
Our fireside mirth is heard no more! The little cricket's chirp is o'er,
That filled our happy home with glee ; The dove hath fled whose pinions bore
Healing and peace, for thee and me!
Our youngest-born,--our autumn flower,
The best beloved, because the last; The star that shone above our bower
When many a cherished dream had past; The one sweet hope that o'er us cast
Its rainbow-form of life and light, And smiled defiance on the blast,
Hath vanished from our eager sight!
Oh! sudden was the wrench that tore
Affection's firmest links apart,-
Deep in each bleeding heart of heart:
Without one sign-one warning token ; To sleep in peace,—then wake, and start,
To find life's fairest promise broken !
What aspirations sweet were ours !
And strewn, at length, our path with flowers. How darkly now the prospect lowers !
How thorny is our homeward way!
Yon little mourner sits and sighs;
No more attract his listless eyes :
Or moves with soft and stealthy tread; And, called, in tones subdued replies,
As if he feared to wake the dead !
Whose sports he loved to guide and share ? Where is the merry eye that won
All hearts to fondness ?—Where, oh, where? The empty crib,- the vacant chair,
The favourite toy,-alone remain, To whisper to our hearts' despair
Of hopes we cannot feel again!