When the strains we loved in the days of yore
No more with their sweetness our heart's-chords thrill,
When Hope's roseate meteors glow no more,
Like the summer sunrise o'er vale and hill,
That our dreamings with radiance were wont to fill.
When these are gone, shall the lone heart know
No solace the solitude's gloom to cheer?
Shall no stray beams lighten the spirit's woe
As it moans "alone!" e'en when crowds are near?
Must all be lost that was once so dear?
Ah, no! Though Time is a thief, I ween,
Stealing youth's best wealth as the swift years go,
Still the memories of pleasures which once have been—
The dreams of the beautiful "Long ago,"
Are our own to keep, and shall aye be so!
"THE KING IS DEAD."
Hush! There's a solemn pause,
And looks of fear!
You ask—Whence comes the cause?
Grim Death is here!
Oh! well thou answerest, well—
'Tis fairly said;
Our hearts thrill to the knell,
"The King is dead!"
Dead! And the bell swings, swings
On in its deep, sad tone;
We own the King of Kings
Is King alone!
We crown our Kings, we place
Bay leaves on victors' brow,
But all our mortal race
Can boast is now.
The body lay in state,
All fair to mortal eye;
The soul's eternal fate—
Oh! Death, thy mystery!
TO "X. Y. Z.,"
On receiving a paper from him.