This is pleasant to contemplate; and if the beauty could but last, forever free from all decay, few would wish for aught of life or love beyond the things of time and sense. But, alas! "he is cut down—" and soon
"Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea;"
and these graves all tell a tale of buried hopes, buried love, buried peace.
"The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight:
Where are those dreamers now!"
We can but sigh our sadness in the closing lines of this beautiful poem—
"Alas, for love! if thou wert all;