LOVE'S DEFEAT.

A thousand times I would have hoped,

A thousand times protested;

But still, as through the night I groped,

My torch from me was wrested, and wrested.

How often with a succoring cup

Unto the hurt I hasted!

The wounded died ere I came up;

My cup was still untasted,—

Untasted.

Of darkness, wounds, and harsh disdain

Endured, I ne'er repented.

‘ T is not of these I would complain:

With these I were contented,—

Contented.

Here lies the misery, to feel

No work of love completed;

In prayerless passion still to kneel,

And mourn, and cry: “Defeated

Defeated!”