The bosom’s quivering throes, The shuddering frame, the anguish of the heart Writhing with Love’s immedicable dart; The unutterable woes Of those whom destiny has doomed to feel The agony they never can reveal-- All these were ours--and when The dying night-winds ceased a while to wake Leaf in the wood or ripple on the lake A murmur rose of pain, Doleful and bitter as the passing cry Of a lost spirit in its agony. Mine is the agony To perish where Elysian apples grow, To parch with thirst where Eden’s waters flow To pine--to droop--to die, Without one hope to ease my bosom’s pain, To know _I love, am loved, and all in vain_! One more fond parting word, While all my frame with agony is shaken, And my torn heart of every hope forsaken, To its far depths is stirred. A word will haunt me like a funeral knell, God bless thee, dear Leonora--and farewell! AT HIS POST. IN MEMORIAM. [Midshipman Goldthwaite, Hopkinsville, Ky., who perished with eleven companions in the battleship Georgia, July 15, 1907.] Call up, Recording Angel, The roster of the dead; Who sleep in vaults or village graves, Or in the ocean bed. Call all alike--the wealthy, The humble or the great; Tell me how died they, Angel? How met their various fate? The Angel called out Marathon, And Bunker Hill sublime, Whose glory shall outlast The temples of old time. Myriads of true and loyal men In many a mighty host, All perished, said the Angel, Faithfully at their post. Some to fair science martyrs; Some to religion’s call; To truth and duty witnesses, In faith they perished, all; And bright, celestial splendor Shone all around each ghost: “I died,” proclaimed each pallid shade, “Faithfully at my post.” Oh, not in vain you perished, Goldthwaite, when fate’s sad blow Struck down the flower of chivalry And laid its promise low; Still, with true joy, salute we Your shade, oh, knightly ghost, And hail thee, loyal hero, Who perished at his post. Thy virtues high in heaven As stars forever burn; Long, long shall love bedew with tears Thy consecrated urn; In life’s young morn you perished-- Perished, but not in vain; Your deathless, bright example Shall cheer young hearts again. The trumpet voice inspiring sounds Along the ocean shore; “Fear God and His commands obey”-- Angels can do no more; From the ill-fated Georgia’s deck There booms a solemn roar; With strength renewed at the sad sound The country’s eagles soar. [Illustration: MIDSHIPMAN FAULKNER GOLDTHWAITE] RECONCILIATION. [Carriers’ Address, written for the Nashville, Tenn., _Press and Times_, December 25, 1865.]