The flowers of earth are fair
As the hopes we fondly cherish;
But the canker-worm of care
Bids the best and brightest perish.
The heavens to-day are bright,
But the morn brings storm and sorrow;
And the friends we love to-night
May sleep in earth to-morrow.
Spirit, unfold thy drooping wing;
Up, up to thy kindred skies.
Life is a sad and weary thing;
He only lives who dies.
His the immortal fruits that grow
By life's eternal river,
Where the shining waves in their onward flow
Sing Glory to God for ever.

These lines were sung to a wild, irregular air, but one full of pathos and beauty.

"You must give me that hymn, Clary."

"It is gone, and the music with it. I shall never be able to remember it again. But I will play you another which will please you better, though the words are not mine." And turning again to the harp, she sang, in a low, plaintive strain, unlike her former triumphant burst of song:

Slowly, slowly tolls the bell,
A heavy note of sorrow;
But gaily will its blithe notes swell
The bridal peal to-morrow,
To-morrow!
The dead man in his shroud to-night
No hope from earth can borrow;
The bride within her tresses bright
Shall wreathe the rose to-morrow,
To-morrow!
The drops that gem that lowly bier,
Though shed in mortal sorrow,
Will not recall a single tear
In festal halls to-morrow!
To-morrow!
'Tis thus through life, from joy and grief,
Alternate shades we borrow;
To-night in tears we find relief,
In smiles of joy to-morrow,
To-morrow!

"What divine music!"

"And the words, Cousin Anthony—you say nothing about the words."

"Are both your own?"

"Oh, no; I am only in heart a poet. I lack the power to give utterance to—

'The thoughts that breathe and words that burn.'