A SONG THAT WAS NEVER SUNG.

Thou sayest our friends are only dead

To idle mirth and sorrow,

Regretful tears for what is fled,

And yearnings for to-morrow.

Alas, that love should know alloy —

How frail the cup that holds our joy!

Thou sighest, “How sweet it were to rove

Those paths of asphodel;

Where all we prize, and all who love,

Rejoice!” Ah, who can tell?

Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand,

To lead thee through a better land.

Why wish the fleeting years to stay?—

When time for us is flown,

There is this garden,— far away,

An Eden all our own:

And there I'll whisper in thine ear

— Ah! what I may not tell thee here!