PARTED.

Farewell, farewell—a sadder strain

No other English word can give;

But we are parted though we live,

And ne’er may meet on earth again.

My life is void without thy love—

A harp with half its strings destroyed;

And thoughts of pleasures once enjoyed,

Can naught of consolation prove.

We live apart—the ocean’s flow

Divides thy sunny home from mine;

And, musing on the shore’s decline,

I watch the waters come and go.

I trace thy image in the sand;

I call thy name—I call in vain:

The breeze is blowing from the main,

And mocks me waiting on the strand.

I see the mighty rivers roll

To plunge, tumultuous, in the sea;

So all my thoughts flow on to thee,

And merge together in their goal.

But thou hast uttered ‘Fare thee well;’

And I must bid a last adieu,

Nor let the aching heart pursue

The longings that no tongue can tell.

. . . . .

And now, the slow returning tide

No longer murmurs of the sea;

The breeze has changed; it flies to thee

And breathes my message at thy side.

The tide shall ebb and flow for aye,

The fickle breeze may wander free;

But all my thoughts shall flow to thee,

Till life and longing pass away.

Francis Ernest Bradley.

Printed and Published by W. & R Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.