And that forbade her to forget;
Forget! what spell can calm the soul?
Should memory o'er its pulses roll
Through almost every night of grief,
We still hope for the morrow;
But what to those can bring relief,
Who pine in endless sorrow.

--EMMA TUCKER.




LINES WRITTEN ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.


Sad solitary thought! that keeps thy vigils,
Thy solemn vigils in the sick man's mind;
Communing lonely with his sinking soul,
And musing on the dim obscurity around him!
Thee! rapt in thy dark magnificence, I call
At this still midnight hour, this awful season,
When on my bed in wakeful restlessness,
I turn me, weary: while all around,
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness,
I only wake to watch the sickly taper that lights,
Me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand of death
I feel press heavy on my vitals;
Slow sapping the warm current of existence;
My moments now are few! e'en now