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They pointed him to a barren plain
Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were slain.
They showed him the lowly grave, where slept
The maiden whose scarf he so truly, had kept;
But they could not show him one living thing,
Amid the warriors of Palestine,
Miss L. E. London.
I love thee, Solitude! thou art possessed
Shrunk from the accents of thy lonely guest,
I've sought thee 'neath the moonlight, where the stream
Where parted runnels leapt beneath its beam,
With sound such as thou lovest, like the hush
I've sought thee, viewless spirit, 'mid the tombs,
Because 1 loved thee, loved thee even there, 'Mid black browed sepulchres and charnel glooms,
Content, dear solitude, thy home to share; And marked the cold moon through some crevice peep Down o'er me, as I watched thy sullen sleep. O I how my heart shrunk, when the green light shone Down on the gaunt and grinning skeleton; And I saw there the gorged and lazy worm In rayless sockets coil its hideous form. Yet, solitude, even then I left thee not:
My heart forgot its terror, thou wert near; With love, strong-deep, that heart's warm cell was fraught,
And, rich in thee, it had no room for fear.
But best I love to roam with thee, when spring
The travelled swallow plies her homeward wing,
Amkl the wild woods, where the streams pass on
From Bud to shadow, slowly, silently, Like wayward thoughts, the present joys that shun, To brood, like toads, in memory's midnight cares, Where light, through fissures, glances but on graves;
And as we wander there, to list from high The lone deep-throated cuckoo, whose sad song Is lifted up at eve those woods among.
And then the moon, the mother of the earth,
Looking with sad eyes on her miscreant child,
Wandering alone o'er ether's boundless wild,
I lift mine eyes to thee! delight alone
Who all alike adore thee, lovely one. But yet thine hour must come, thine hour must pass Like summer clouds, or breath like beauty's glass. Alas! thou tarriest not at our behest, Although, of all heaven's lights, we love thee best.
A. B. P. SOLITUDE.
* No longer weep—no more repine
Yea,—if the world have loved thee not,
Though piercing be the wintry winds,
• For though existence cease with life, Thy grave at least can give thee rest.
And in thy last long dreamless sleep,
What though no tongue thy name may breathe;
No friend above thine ashes weep,
Little thou'lt reck that thought in death.
The sighing breeze, the groaning wood,'