But deem not that she can forget,
Howe'er she scorn the past;
Love's fate upon one die is set,
And that for her is cast.
'Tis not the lover that is lost,
The love, for which we grieve;
But for the price which they have cost,
The memory which they leave.
The knowledge of the bitter truth—
Contrast of word and deed—
That Hope, religion of our youth,
Can falsify her creed—
Trusting affection, confidence,
The holy, and the deep;
Feelings which rain'd sweet influence—
It is for these we weep.
Maiden, I pity thee, thy trust
Too short a life hath known;
Too soon thy temple is in dust,
Thy first fond faith o'erthrown.
The heart betray'd believes no more,
Distrust eats in the mind;
Never may after-time restore
The years it leaves behind.L. E. L.
U
