HENRY W. GRADY.
Upon the winds from shores uncharted blown,
That phantom came, stoled in his trailing mists;
He set his cruel gyves upon thy wrists:—
Thine ear was dulled save to his subtle tone:—
He led thee down where fade the paths unknown
In the deep hollows of the Shadow Land:
Love’s tears,—the tendance of her gentle hand,—
Thou didst remember not: her deepest groan