At such an hour his burning passion slept Before the portals of their azure heaven, Like to some wandering angel who has sunk To rest beside the glory-shadowed gate Of a lost Paradise; and when he bowed To press his lip upon the brow that lay Soft pillowed on his bosom, she would start Up from his half embrace, and then, to hide Her sweet confusion, turn aside to part With white and jeweled fingers, tremblingly, The rich, dark masses of his waving hair. Then joyous hopes came crowding brightly through Their dreaming souls, as did the evening stars Through the calm heaven above them, and the world Of happiness that lay upon their hearts Was silent all, for language had no words To shadow forth the fond imaginings, That made its very atmosphere a heaven Of dreamy, rich, voluptuous purity. An angel bowed before the mercy-seat Trusts not more purely in the changeless One To whom his prayer ascendeth, than did she The proud, bright being whom her deathless love Had made its idol-god—she could have laid Her soft white hand in his without one thought Except of love and trust, and bade him lead Her to the end of life’s bewildered maze, Blindfolded, while her heart on his would rest Without one care for Time, one lonely fear For that Eternity which mortals dread. Such, then, is _woman’s love_—and wo to him By whom her trusting nature is betrayed! —— A change—a fearful, sad and blighting change— Came o’er them—how or why it matters not— Enough to know it came—enough to _feel_ That they shall meet as they have met, no more. Of him we speak not—we but know he lives; And she whose heart, whose very life was his, Could tell you nothing more. Lost—lost forever—and her life stood still, And gazed upon the future’s cold gray heaven, As if to catch one gleam of hope’s fair star— No hope was there for her—the hand of God Lay darkly in the cloud that shadowed it. A _never-ending, living death_ was hers, And one by one she saw her hopes expire, But shed no tear, because the fount was dry; Hers was a grief too strangely sad for tears. You heard no shriek of anguish as the tide Of cold and leaden loneliness swept in Upon her gentle bosom, though the fall Of earth upon the coffin of the loved And lost was not more fearful. She prayed for power to “_suffer and be still_.” And God was merciful—it came at last, As dreamless slumber to a heart that mourns. She smoothed her brow above a burning brain,