And well my dying hour were blest, If life's expiring breath Should pass, as thy lips gently prest My forehead cold in death; And sound my sleep would be, and sweet, Beneath the churchyard tree, If sometimes in thy heart should beat One pulse, still true to me. PARTING. There's no use in weeping, Though we are condemned to part: There's such a thing as keeping A remembrance in one's heart: There's such a thing as dwelling On the thought ourselves have nursed, And with scorn and courage telling The world to do its worst. We'll not let its follies grieve us, We'll just take them as they come; And then every day will leave us A merry laugh for home. When we've left each friend and brother, When we're parted wide and far, We will think of one another, As even better than we are. Every glorious sight above us, Every pleasant sight beneath, We'll connect with those that love us, Whom we truly love till death! In the evening, when we're sitting By the fire, perchance alone, Then shall heart with warm heart meeting, Give responsive tone for tone. We can burst the bonds which chain us, Which cold human hands have wrought, And where none shall dare restrain us We can meet again, in thought. So there's no use in weeping, Bear a cheerful spirit still; Never doubt that Fate is keeping Future good for present ill! APOSTASY. This last denial of my faith, Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard; And, though upon my bed of death, I call not back a word. Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,-- Thy sightless saint of stone; She cannot, from this burning breast, Wring one repentant moan. Thou say'st, that when a sinless child, I duly bent the knee, And prayed to what in marble smiled Cold, lifeless, mute, on me. I did. But listen! Children spring Full soon to riper youth; And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring, I sold my early truth. 'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine, Bent o'er me, when I said, "That land and God and Faith are mine, For which thy fathers bled." I see thee not, my eyes are dim; But well I hear thee say, "O daughter cease to think of him Who led thy soul astray. "Between you lies both space and time; Let leagues and years prevail To turn thee from the path of crime, Back to the Church's pale." And, did I need that, thou shouldst tell What mighty barriers rise To part me from that dungeon-cell, Where my loved Walter lies?