SONG.
———
BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.
———
Music; where soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory. Shelley.
She knew me not, although her breast
Had pillowed oft my head,
And thought I long had been at rest
With Ocean’s ghostly dead.
Full on my wan and wasted face
She fixed her melancholy gaze;
But there, alas! she could not trace
The look of other days.
She knew me not! the flight of time
An iron form will bow,
And bondage in a tropic clime
Had darkened cheek and brow:
I spoke of friends; with look cast down,
Who shared her joy in better hours—
Whom Death had added to his crown
Of darkly folded flowers:—
In vain! the mourning one no glance
Of love or welcome gave;
She thought beneath the blue expanse
Of ocean was my grave:
I then sang airs that in the cell
Of hoarding memory long had slept,
And with a look tongue cannot tell
She clasped my neck and wept.