And now, though stranger to thy form and face, Yet since familiar with thy spirit’s tone; Pardon this humble pen, which fain would trace Some thought, to cheer a heart bereaved and lone, Some sympathetic token, from a soul Which bleeds to know that thine is bowed ’neath grief’s control.
The human heart, it hath been aptly said, Is like that tree, which must a wound receive, Ere yet the kindly balsam it will shed, Which to the sufferer’s wound doth healing give; Such as have seen their fondest hopes laid low, Can only feel for thee, or thy deep anguish know!
This bosom bears a kindred stroke to thine. Yet owneth that the Hand which wounds can heal! May Gilead’s balm, as it hath brought to mine, So to thy wound restoring life reveal; Show thee a Father, in a chastening God, And bid thee meekly bow, and kiss his gentle rod.
I knew her not, whose image blendeth yet With every dream of joy the night doth bring— Whose blessed features Love will ne’er forget, Nor of whose worth thy muse e’er cease to sing! But ’tis enough, that she was all _thy_ choice, To know that sorrow hath with thee a deep-toned voice.
And is she not thy “guardian angel” _now_? Doth she not “live in beauty” _yet_, above, And oft descend, to watch thy steps below, And whisper in thy dreams sweet words of love? A spirit, ’twixt whose spotless charms, and thee, Hangs but the veil of Time, behind which, soon thou’lt see.
Till then, look upward to her home of light— ’Twill chase the shadows from thy lonely hearth, And think of her, as of a being bright— _Still_ thy “beloved,” though not now of earth! Follow the traces of her heavenward feet, And soon in perfect love, to part no more, ye’ll meet.
For if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search, and vigil long, Of him who treasures up a wrong. _Mazeppa._
The night was waxing late, when the beautiful and witty Mrs. Anson was promenading at a party where all the _élite_ of the city were assembled, with an imposing looking man, who seemed to unite—rare combination—high fashion and dignity of bearing. His face was almost constantly turned toward the lady, and he seemed careful that his words should reach no ears but those for which he uttered them. His last remark, whatever it was, seemed to have offended the lady, for she stopped suddenly, and gazing full in his face, exhibited as dark a frown as those bright, beautiful eyes could be made to produce. It was but a passing cloud, however, for the next moment she said, laughingly, “Upon my word, Major Derode, you give your tongue strange license.” His peace was soon made, and drawing the arm of Mrs. Anson within his own, he asked her if she would dance any more.