THE MAGIC SPELL
The magic spell, the dream is fled,
The dream of joy sent from above;
The idol of my soul is dead,
And naught remains but hopeless love.
The song of birds, the scent of flowers,
The tender light of parting day—
Unheeded now the tardy hours
Steal sadly, silently away.
But welcome now the solemn night,
When watchful stars are gleaming high,
For though thy form eludes my sight,
I know thy gentle spirit's nigh.
O! dear one, now I feel thy power,
'Tis sweet to rest when toil is o'er,
But sweeter far that blessed hour
When fond hearts meet to part no more.