Thou art gone, and I hear not thy gladsome tone,
But my heart is still beating “alone, alone,”—
Yet often in dreams do I hear a strain
As of angels bearing thee back again.
Thou art gone, and the world may not miss thee long,
For thou didst not care for its idle throng;
But this fond bosom, in silent woe,
Shall carry thine image wherever I go.
Thou art gone, thou art gone! Shall we meet no more
By the sandy hill or the winding shore?
Or watch as the crested billows rise,
And the frightened curlew startling cries?
Thou art gone, but oh! in that land of peace
Where sin, and sorrow and anguish cease,
Where all is happy and bright and fair,
My own sweet love, may I meet thee there?
March, 1857.
JUBAL.
(Book of Genesis iv. 21.)
The Sun soon kissed to flowers, the blood-stained sod,
From which the voice of Abel cried to God,
And drove his murderer to the land of Nod;
And smiling, kindly watched them day by day,
Till they, like Abel, died and passed away,
And other flowers grew bright above their clay.
While with impartial kindness, year by year,
He kissed from Cain’s curs’d face the awful tear
That flowed when that dread voice appalled his ear.