No, not forgotten; else the faithful beating
Of heart to genial heart, that beat again,
Were turned to throbbings; and each pulse repeating
But the sad echoings of pain to pain.
And the blest rapture of the longed for meeting,
Then be unsought, or would be sought in vain.
No, not forgotten; for though fame may fail thee,
And love's fond beamings change to glance of scorn—
Though those once trusted now may harsh assail thee—
Thy friend of yesterday, thy foe this morn—
There is, who holds thee dear—do not bewail thee
If His blest Book of Life thy name adorn.
