Sometimes a sunlit sphere comes rolling by, And then we softly whisper,--can it be? And leaning toward the silvery orb, we try To hear the music of its murmuring sea; To catch, perchance, some flashing glimpse of green, Or breathe some wild-wood fragrance, wafted through The opening gates of pearl, that fold between The blinding splendors and the changeless blue. THE ANGEL. --Nay, sister, nay! a single healing leaf Plucked from the bough of yon twelve-fruited tree, Would soothe such anguish,--deeper stabbing grief Has pierced thy throbbing heart-- THE FIRST SPIRIT. --Ah, woe is me! I from my clinging babe was rudely torn; His tender lips a loveless bosom pressed Can I forget him in my life new born? O that my darling lay upon my breast! THE ANGEL. --And thou? THE SECOND SPIRIT. I was a fair and youthful bride, The kiss of love still burns upon my cheek, He whom I worshipped, ever at my side, --Him through the spirit realm in vain I seek. Sweet faces turn their beaming eyes on mine; Ah! not in these the wished-for look I read; Still for that one dear human smile I pine; Thou and none other!--is the lover's creed. THE ANGEL. --And whence thy sadness in a world of bliss Where never parting comes, nor mourner's tear? Art thou, too, dreaming of a mortal's kiss Amid the seraphs of the heavenly sphere? THE THIRD SPIRIT. --Nay, tax not me with passion's wasting fire; When the swift message set my spirit free, Blind, helpless, lone, I left my gray-haired sire; My friends were many, he had none save me. I left him, orphaned, in the starless night; Alas, for him no cheerful morning's dawn! I wear the ransomed spirit's robe of white, Yet still I hear him moaning, She is gone! THE ANGEL. --Ye know me not, sweet sisters?--All in vain Ye seek your lost ones in the shapes they wore; The flower once opened may not bud again, The fruit once fallen finds the stem no more. Child, lover, sire,--yea, all things loved below, Fair pictures damasked on a vapor's fold, Fade like the roseate flush, the golden glow, When the bright curtain of the day is rolled. I was the babe that slumbered on thy breast. --And, sister, mine the lips that called thee bride. --Mine were the silvered locks thy hand caressed, That faithful hand, my faltering footstep's guide! Each changing form, frail vesture of decay, The soul unclad forgets it once hath worn, Stained with the travel of the weary day, And shamed with rents from every wayside thorn.