Within her heart there echo’d Again the well-known tune That promised this bright future, And ask’d her for its own: Then words of sorrow, broken By half-reproachful pain; And then a farewell, spoken In words of cold disdain. XIII. Where now was the stern purpose That nerved her soul so long? Whence came the words she utter’d, So hard, so cold, so strong? What right had she to banish A hope that God had given? Why must she choose earth’s portion, And turn aside from Heaven? XIV. To-day! Was it this morning? If this long, fearful strife Was but the work of hours, What would be years of life? Why did a cruel Heaven For such great suffering call? And why—O, still more cruel!— Must her own words do all? XV. Did she repent? O Sorrow! Why do we linger still To take thy loving message, And do thy gentle will? See, her tears fall more slowly; The passionate murmurs cease, And back upon her spirit Flow strength, and love, and peace. XVI. The fire burns more brightly, The rain has passed away, Herbert will see no shadow Upon his home to-day; Only that Bertha greets him With doubly tender care, Kissing a fonder blessing Down on his golden hair. NUMBER TWO. I. The studio is deserted, Palette and brush laid by, The sketch rests on the easel, The paint is scarcely dry; And Silence—who seems always Within her depths to bear The next sound that will utter— Now holds a dumb despair. II. So Bertha feels it: listening With breathless, stony fear, Waiting the dreadful summons Each minute brings more near: When the young life, now ebbing, Shall fail, and pass away Into that mighty shadow Who shrouds the house to-day. III. But why—when the sick chamber Is on the upper floor— Why dares not Bertha enter Within the close-shut door? If he—her all—her Brother, Lies dying in that gloom, What strange mysterious power Has sent her from the room? IV. It is not one week’s anguish That can have changed her so; Joy has not died here lately, Struck down by one quick blow; But cruel months have needed Their long relentless chain, To teach that shrinking manner Of helpless, hopeless pain. V. The struggle was scarce over Last Christmas Eve had brought: The fibres still were quivering Of the one wounded thought, When Herbert—who, unconscious, Had guessed no inward strife— Bade her, in pride and pleasure, Welcome his fair young wife. VI. Bade her rejoice, and smiling, Although his eyes were dim, Thank’d God he thus could pay her The care she gave to him. This fresh bright life would bring her A new and joyous fate— O Bertha, check the murmur That cries, Too late! too late! VII. Too late! Could she have known it A few short weeks before, That his life was completed, And needing hers no more, She might—O sad repining! What “might have been,” forget; “It was not,” should suffice us To stifle vain regret. VIII.