BY HARRISON.

Oh! to be heart hungry,
To feel that never again

Shall the heart pulsate with rapture
To the music of love's strain!

To feel o'er the senses stealing
A grief for words too deep,

And know the heart's best instincts
Are locked in fathomless sleep.

To hear the piteous wailings
That rise from an empty heart,

While every breath is torture
And every thought a dart.

Oh, list to the wondrous music
As it floats from the world above:

"There is balm for the broken-hearted:
The gift of my Son is—love."

Aye, prayer to heaven ascending,
Tho' winged from a convict cell,

Shall find in heaven a welcome
No tongue can ever tell.