At rosy morn, when like a gleam From some far brighter sphere than ours, The sunlight with its golden sheen Awakes the world and tints the flowers— When birds their tuneful numbers raise And chant a welcome to the dawn, When Nature lifts her voice in praise, And day, creation-like, is born— Then, when are hymns from land and sea, I bow to Heaven and think of thee! My lonely room—my quiet hours, No hand to press—no voice to cheer, No form to meet in Pleasure’s bowers, No song to melt the soul to tears— No welcome home with looks of joy, No gentle song to tell of love, No day-dreams of our cherished boy, No child-like eyes to point above— No hand to soothe the ruffled brow, Alas! how much I miss thee now! Pity the wretch, who, doomed to roam From day to day this lower sphere, Unloved by any—loving none, Still wasting on from year to year, As lonely as some twinkling orb That trembles in the distant sky, A watcher mid the hosts of night With none to share its company— Unloved while living, and when dead, With none a heart-wrung tear to shed! Alas! how cold and desolate The path of such a one must be, How dim his hopes—how sad his fate, How cheerless his lone destiny! No eye to mark each changing look, No lip his fever’d brain to press; No gentle one in whisper low, With kindly words his ear to bless,— To point his thoughts from earth to sky, And paint some bright Futurity! Why do we live? Affections—ties That well and form within the breast, That intertwine our sympathies With hopes and joys that make us blest— These point the panting spirit up To milder realms beyond the skies, And whisper to the trembling soul New bliss awaits in paradise! Oh! what were life with love away, Where earth its bound—its limit clay! Then soon return, fond one, return, Thy greeting shall be kind and true, Love’s lamp again shall brightly burn, And life its purest joys renew! Oh! absence, like the clouds that throw Thick shadows o’er the summer sky, But, passing, leave a brighter glow, A deeper, purer blue on high: So now I wait the passing gloom, That light again may gladden home! * * * * * SONG. Oh! sing unto my soul, my love, That all-entrancing lay, Such as the seraphim above Are singing far away— It comes as some familiar strain Once heard in heaven, now heard again. For sure—as olden sages tell— We are not all of earth: The soul, by some mysterious spell, Has glimpses of its birth; And memories of things divine Thrill o’er me at that voice of thine.