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180 LOUISA JANE HALL. Thou say'st must die in youth! Thou know'st not yet The deep and bitter sense of loneliness, The throes and achings of a childless heart, Which yet will all be thine! Thou know'st not yet What 't is to wander 'mid thy spacious halls, And find them desolate! wildly to start From thy deep musings at the distant sound Of voice or step like his, and sink back sick— Ay! sick at heart—with dark remembrances! To dream thou seest him as in years gone by, When in his bright and joyous infancy, His laughing eyes amid thick curls sought thine, And his soft arms were twined around thy neck, And his twin rosebud lips just lisp'd thy name— Yet feel in agony 't is but a dream! Thou know'st not yet what 't is to lead the van Of armies hurrying on to victory, Yet in the pomp and glory of that hour, Sadly to miss the well-known snowy plume, Whereon thine eyes were ever proudly fix'd In battle-field!—to sit, at midnight deep, Alone within thy tent—all shuddering— When as the curtain'd door lets in the breeze, Thy fancy conjures up the gleaming arms And bright yound hero-face of him who once Had been most welcome there!—and worst of all—— PISO. It is enough! The gift of prophecy Is on thee, maid! A power that is not thine Looks out from that dilated, awful form— Those eyes deep flashing with unearthly light— And stills my soul.—My Paulus must not die! And yet—to give up thus the boon!— MRS. SWIFT IS a Philadelphian by birth; the daughter of Mr. John Lorrain, a merchant of that city. She now resides in Easton, Pennsylvania, where, for many years past, she has been confined to one house, almost to one room, by the illness of her husband. Her poems frequently appear in Neal's Saturday Gazette; but they are written less for the public than for a circle of warmly-attached friends. A vein of tenderness runs through them all. STANZAS. "Friends who by practice of some envious skill Were torn apart, a wide wound, mind from mind, She did unite again with visions dear Of fond affection, and of truth sincere." SHELLEY. NOT on this earth, beloved, shall we meet; Not in this weary world of sighs and tears, Where life is meted out by days and years, Shall we again our plighted faith repeat; But in some mansion blest, Where happy spirits rest, Some star perchance in space, whose far-off light Gleam'd on thy upturn'd brow, when first you swore To love me always, love me evermore, Passion's bright dawn, that set in darkest night. In loneliness and silence oft I gaze Upon the midnight glories of the skies, When world on world man's feeble sense defies; Till overwhelm'd by the reflugent blaze 16 (181)
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 18:10:27
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 17:01:25
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 00:18:39
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