DEAD AND FORGOT.

Dead and forgot!

How sad the lot

When wintry tempests blow

To lie all cold

‘ Neath the churchyard mould,

And in a year or so

To have our very name unsaid,

Unless it chance to fall

From careless lips that say, “She's dead,” —

She's dead, and that is all!

But sadder still

That one should fill

The place we thought our own:

That a form more light,

And an eye more bright

Should guard our dear hearth-stone;

That where we strayed another's feet

At morn and eve should roam,

And another's voice — perchance more sweet —

Make music in our home!

That where we locked

Our hands and talked

Amid our chosen flowers,

The lips we pressed

Should be caressed

By other lips than ours,—

That other eyes should watch for him,

And other arms embrace,

Until our image growing dim

Yield to another's face.

And this is love!

O injured Dove!

Thy wings have many a stain:

But pure and white

In the Land of Light

They shall be spread again;

The deep, true love our spirits crave

Earth has never supplied;

Nor till we leave the dreary grave

Shall we be satisfied.