We parted; she to her worsted work and her $5000 a year, I to seek another refuge, or to pursue my hopeless pilgrimage over the world, in search of harmony—to mourn over my blighted hopes, and the perfidious voice of my Rosalie, and to sink at last into an untimely grave. Let my epitaph be, not “Died of a Broken Heart,” as the world might construe the fact, but simply
“Died of a Discord!”
NOT DEAD.
And thou art gone, the meek flowers wave
In sadness o’er thine early grave;
The wild-bird comes with mellow song,
And balmy airs sweep lightly on;
O’er all the rank and nodding grass
The summer’s shadows gently pass,