Starlike her eyes were,--but yours were blind; Sweet her red lips,--but yours were curled; Pure her young heart,--but yours,--ah, you find This, mother, is not the only world! She came,--bright gleam of the dawning day; She went,--pale dream of the winding-sheet. Mother, they come to me and say Your headstone will almost touch her feet! You are walking now in a strange, dim land: Tell me, has pride gone with you there? Does a frail white form before you stand, And tremble to earth, beneath your stare? No, no!--she is strong in her pureness now, And Love to Power no more defers. I fear the roses will never grow On your lonely grave as they do on hers! But now from those lips one last, sad touch,-- Kiss it is not, and has never been; In my boyhood's sleep I dreamed of such, And shuddered,--they were so cold and thin! There,--now cover the cold, white face, Whiter and colder than statue stone! Mother, you have a resting-place; But I am weary, and all alone! AARON BURR.[A] [Footnote A: _The Life and Times of Aaron Burr._ By J. PARTON. New York: Mason, Brothers. 1857.] The life of Aaron Burr is an admirable subject for a biographer. He belonged to a class of men, rare in America, who are remarkable, not so much for their talents or their achievements, as for their adventures and the vicissitudes of their fortunes. Europe has produced many such men and women: political intriguers; royal favorites; adroit courtiers; adventurers who carried their swords into every scene of danger; courtesans who controlled the affairs of states; persevering schemers who haunted the purlieus of courts, plotted treason in garrets, and levied war in fine ladies' boudoirs.