THE DISCONSOLATE.
Down from her hand it fell, the scroll
She could no longer trace;
The grief of love is in her soul,
Its shame upon her face.
Her head has dropp'd against her arm,
The faintness of despair;
Her lip has lost its red rose charm,
For all but death is there.
And there it lies, the faith of years,
The register'd above,
Deepen'd by woman's anxious tears,
Her first and childish love.
Are there no ties to keep the heart,
A vow'd and sacred thing?
Theirs had known all life's better part,
The freshness of its spring.
It had begun in days of joy,
In childhood, and had been
When he was but a gallant boy,
And she a fairy queen.
Memory was as the same in both;
The love their young hearts dream'd,
