Before my door Stood the familiar chair of one whose call Was ominous of ill. My heart grew sick With flutter of foreboding and foredoom; But in swift silence I flew up the steps, And, blind with stifled frenzy, reached the side Of my poor wife. She smiled at seeing me, But I could only kneel, and bathe her hands With tears and kisses. In her gentle breast-- True home of love, and love and home to me-- The blood had burst its walls, and flowed in flame From lips it left in ashes. In her smile Of perfect trustfulness, I caught first glimpse Of that aureola of fadeless light Which spans my lonely couch, and kindles hope That when my time shall come to follow her, My spirit may go out, enwreathed and wrapped By the familiar glory, which to-night Shall brood o'er all my vigils and my dreams! DESPAIR. Ah! what is so dead as a perished delight! Or a passion outlived! or a scheme overthrown! Save the bankrupt heart it has left in its flight, Still as quick as the eye, but as cold as a stone! The honey-bee hoards for its winter-long need, The treasure it gathers in joy from the flowers; And drinks in each sip of its silvery mead The flavor and flush of the sweet summer hours. But a pleasure expires at its earliest breath: No labor can hoard it, no cunning can save; For the song of its life is the sigh of its death, And the sense it has thrilled is its shroud and its grave. Ah! what is our love, with its tincture of lust, And its pleasure that pains us and pain that endears, But joy in an armful of beautiful dust That crumbles, and flies on the wings of the years? And what is ambition for glory and power, But desire to be reckoned the uppermost fool Of a million of fools, for a pitiful hour, And be cursed for a tyrant, or kicked for a tool? Nay, what is the noblest that art can achieve, But to conjure a vision of light to the eyes, That will pale ere we paint it, and pall ere we leave On the heart it betrays and the hand it defies? We love, and we long with an infinite greed For a love that will fill our deep longing, in vain; The cup that we drink of is pleasant, indeed, Yet it holds but a drop of the heavenly rain. We plan for our powers the divinest we can; We do with our powers the supremest we may; And, winning or losing, for labor and plan The best that we garner is--rest and decay! Content--satisfaction--who wins them? Look down! They are held without thought by the dolts and the drones: 'Tis the slave who in carelessness carries the crown; And the hovels have kinglier men than the thrones. The maid sings of love to the hum of her wheel; And her lover responds as he follows his team; They wed, and their children come quickly to seal In fulfilment the pledge of their loftiest dream.