Then for a moment she was nigh, He heard no step, but she was there; As if an angel suddenly Were bodied from the viewless air, And all her fine ethereal frame Should fade as swiftly as it came. So, half in fancy's sunny trance, And half in misery's aching void With set and stony countenance His bitter being he enjoyed, And thrust for ever from his mind The happiness he could not find. As when the wretch, in lonely room, To selfish death is madly hurled, The glamour of that fatal fume Shuts out the wholesome living world-- So all his manhood's strength and pride One sickly dream had swept aside. Yea, brother, and we passed him there, But yesterday, in merry mood, And marveled at the lordly air That shamed his beggar's attitude, Nor heeded that ourselves might be Wretches as desperate as he; Who let the thought of bliss denied Make havoc of our life and powers, And pine, in solitary pride, For peace that never shall be ours, Because we will not work and wait In trustful patience for our fate. And so it chanced once more that she Came by the old familiar spot: The face he would have died to see Bent o'er him, and he knew it not; Too rapt in selfish grief to hear, Even when happiness was near. And pity filled her gentle breast For him that would not stir nor speak The dying crimson of the west, That faintly tinged his haggard cheek, Fell on her as she stood, and shed A glory round the patient head. Ah, let him wake! The moments fly: This awful tryst may be the last. And see, the tear, that dimmed her eye, Had fallen on him ere she passed-- She passed: the crimson paled to gray: And hope departed with the day. The heavy hours of night went by, And silence quickened into sound, And light slid up the eastern sky, And life began its daily round-- But light and life for him were fled: His name was numbered with the dead. _Nov., 1861._ [Illustration] THE PATH OF ROSES. In the dark silence of an ancient room, Whose one tall window fronted to the West, Where, through laced tendrils of a hanging vine, The sunset-glow was fading into night, Sat a pale Lady, resting weary hands Upon a great clasped volume, and her face Within her hands. Not as in rest she bowed, But large hot tears were coursing down her cheek, And her low-panted sobs broke awefully Upon the sleeping echoes of the night. Soon she unclasp'd the volume once again, And read the words in tone of agony, As in self-torture, weeping as she read:-- _"He crowns the glory of his race: He prayeth but in some fit place To meet his foeman face to face: "And, battling for the True, the Right, From ruddy dawn to purple night, To perish in the midmost fight: "Where hearts are fierce and hands are strong, Where peals the bugle loud and long, Where blood is dropping in the throng: