THE LAST KISS.
BY JENNY A. M'EWAN.
THE last, the last! it lingers still,
Though weary days have fled,
Though summer's bloom
Is in the tomb,
And autumn's glory dead.
The last, the last! upon my brow
Thy seal of truth is pressed,
And in my heart
Love's echoes start;
Their music ne'er can rest.
The bright, blue heaven is clouded now,
And moans the wintry blast;
Fond memory sighs,
But hope replies,
"That kiss was not the last."
'Tis when I yield my wearied frame
To slumber's magic powers,
By thy dear side,
Thine own loved bride,
I rove through Dreamland's bowers.
Oh, dim are all my earthly joys
To those that greet me there,
And in my dream
It ne'er doth seem
That Heaven can be more fair.
Gray morning breaks o'er yonder hill;
My visions bright are past,
Yet ere they fly,
The spirits sigh,
"Thy dream-kiss was the last!"
When twilight's magic hour draws nigh,
And Thought is roaming free,
When evening's breeze
Sighs through the trees,
Thy spirit comes to me.
Oh, 'tis a holy presence then
That's stealing o'er my breast;
The magic power
Of that sweet hour
Lulls my sad heart to rest.
And on my brow I feel a touch,
A breathing touch of bliss;
The spirit-sigh
Is hovering nigh,
That touch, the spirit-kiss.
'Tis here, 'tis here! I feel it now—
Yes, o'er my heart 'tis cast,
And voices sweet
Once more repeat
"The spirit-kiss is last."