My heavy pulse is weaker growing; Life’s lamp burns feebly now, And the long locks are darkly flowing Upon my damp, cold brow. I hear a voice, low, faint and broken, Falling upon my heart; Its tones in solemn awe have spoken That I must soon depart. And must my wild dreams coldly perish, And wither in the dust! The golden hopes I fondly cherish— My earthly joy and trust! The schemes my soul has long been forming, Just bursting into light, And tones of love my fond heart warming, All—_all_ be quenched in night! Full many a bud of hope was wreathing About my thornless path, In mellow tones of music breathing Of all but blight and death; I had not thought to see them fading And dying at their birth— To view this cloud of darkness shading The beautiful of earth. Oh, there were softest whispers telling Of greatness and of fame; Of rapture in the bosom swelling, And of an honored name; And how the knee of genius bending, Should own a deeper sway, And shouts of joy the blue skies rending, Bear higher deeds away. And there were gentle voices finding A way to my deep soul, _Love’s_ own sweet angel softly binding My heart to her control; And in my dreams of fame and glory, Beamed ever her meek eyes, Telling a fond and pleasant story Of mingled smiles and sighs. That tone—’twas music, ever hushing My panting heart to rest— And glorious dreams like sunlight gushing, Thrilled through my peaceful breast, Those dreams like summer buds have faded, That tone hath died away, Death’s cloud my beaming skies hath shaded, And quenched the light of day. I lay me down, faint, lone, and weary, No hand upon my brow; Through the dark valley, cold and dreary, No voice to cheer me now. My life has been a dream; in vain Have soft eyes shed their light; Frail phantoms of a fevered brain— Their ray has sunk in night. And thus, when earthly trust hath perished, And earthly joy hath fled— When hopes my fond heart loved and cherished Are lying with the dead— Oh! may there not in yonder heaven Be for my brow a wreath, Whose fadeless flowers shall ne’er be riven By the rude hand of Death! Father above, wilt thou now hearken Unto my feeble cry— Dispel the mists that coldly darken And dim my failing eye? I bless thee—for the cloud hath parted That hid thy glorious face; Joyful and glad, yet humble-hearted, I sink in thine embrace. * * * * * [Illustration: _G. CATTERMOLE. H. ROSS_ A DANGEROUS STUDENT. Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.] * * * * * TO —— IN ABSENCE.