BY G. W. VAX WEIGHS.

Thou art not dead, thou art not gone to dust,
No line of all thy loveliness shall fall

To formless ruin, smote by time and thrust
Into the solemn gulf that covers all.

Thou canst not perish. Tho' the sod
Sink with its violets closer to thy breast,

Tho' by the feet of generations trod
The loadstone crumbles from thy place of rest.

The marvel of thy beauty cannot die;
The sweetness of thy presence shall not fade;

Earth gave not all the glory of thine eye;
Death cannot smite what earth ne'er made.

It was not thine, that marble forehead pale and cold.
Nor those dumb lips they laid beneath the snow;

Thy heart would throb beneath that passive fold;
Thy hands, for me, that stony clasp forego.

But thou hast gone. Gone from this dreary land;
Gone from the storms let loose on every hill;

Lured by the sweet persuasion of a band
That leads thee, somewhere, in the distance still.

Where e'er thou art, I know thou wearest yet
The same bewitching beauty, sanctified

By calmer joy, and touched with soft regret
For him who seeks but cannot reach thy side.

I keep for thee the living love of old,
And seek thy place in nature, as a child

Whose hand is parted from its playmate's hold
Wanders and cries along a lonesome wild.

When, in the watches of my heart, I hear
The messages of purer life and know

The footsteps of thy spirit lingering near,
Life's darkness hides the way I fain would go.

Canst thou not bid the empty realms restore
That form, the symbol of thy heavenly part?

Or in the barren fields of silence pour
That voice, the perfect music of thy heart?

Oh, once—once bending to my warm and eager lips,
Take back the tender warmth of life from me,

Or let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse
The light of mine, and give me death with thee.