Yet think of me sometimes, where, cold and still, I lie, who once was swift to do thy will, Whose lips so often answered to thy kiss, Who, dying, blessed thee for that bygone bliss: I pray thee do not bar my presence quite From thy new life, so full of new delight. I would not vex thee, waiting by thy side; My presence should not chill thy fair young bride; Only bethink thee how alone I lie: To die and be forgotten were to die A double death; and I deserve of thee Some grace of memory, fair howe’er _she_ be. * * * * * THE LAST GOOD-BYE.¹ ¹ Copyright, Roberts Bros. HOW shall we know it is the last good-bye? The skies will not be darkened in that hour, No sudden light will fall on leaf or flower, No single bird will hush its careless cry, And you will hold my hands, and smile or sigh Just as before. Perchance the sudden tears In your dear eyes will answer to my fears; But there will come no voice of prophecy: No voice to whisper, “Now, and not again, Space for last words, last kisses, and last prayer, For all the wild, unmitigated pain Of those who, parting clasp hands with despair.” “Who knows?” we say, but doubt and fear remain, Would any _choose_ to part thus unaware? * * * * * NEXT YEAR. THE lark is singing gaily in the meadow, the sun is rising o’er the dark blue hills; But she is gone, the music of whose talking was sweeter than the voice of summer rills. Sometimes I see the bluebells of the forest, and think of her blue eyes; Sometimes I seem to hear the rustle of her garments: ’tis but the wind’s low sighs. I see the sunbeams trail along the orchard, and fall in thought to tangling up her hair; And sometimes round the sinless lips of childhood breaks forth a smile, such as she used to wear; But never any pleasant thing, around, above us, seems to me like her love―― More lofty than the skies that bend and brighten o’er us, more constant than the dove. She walks no more beside me in the morning; she meets me not on any summer eve; But once at night I heard a low voice calling――“Oh, faithful friend, thou hast not long to grieve!” Next year, when larks are singing gaily in the meadow, I shall not hear their tone; But she in the dim, far-off country of the stranger, will walk no more alone. * * * * * MY MOTHER’S PICTURE. (FROM “IN THE GARDEN OF DREAMS.”)