198
POEMS.
The brows of the gravest—there is one vacant seat,
Ah, late it was filled by a presence so sweet;
That prophet-hearts whispered, when last she was there,
"We soon must relinquish a being so fair!"
Though I write not the name of this angel of love,
It bears no mean place on the records above;
And long in our hearts will her memory live,
The source of a sadness, which all will forgive—
But all is now over—the sad and the gay,
Have sung their last songs—have said their last say:
The plays are all ended, the stories all told,
They pass from the parlor, the young and the old:
The beaux follow belles to see them safe home,
How they wish that Thanksgiving would oftener come:
Now all have retired—the lights are put out,
The old have forgotten the racket and rout;
The seal of repose on each child's brow is set,
And the young spirit fancies the party just mot;
While all that has happened seems but a brief dream,
The glance of a sunbeam on Life's troubled stream;
Ah, late it was filled by a presence so sweet;
That prophet-hearts whispered, when last she was there,
"We soon must relinquish a being so fair!"
Though I write not the name of this angel of love,
It bears no mean place on the records above;
And long in our hearts will her memory live,
The source of a sadness, which all will forgive—
But all is now over—the sad and the gay,
Have sung their last songs—have said their last say:
The plays are all ended, the stories all told,
They pass from the parlor, the young and the old:
The beaux follow belles to see them safe home,
How they wish that Thanksgiving would oftener come:
Now all have retired—the lights are put out,
The old have forgotten the racket and rout;
The seal of repose on each child's brow is set,
And the young spirit fancies the party just mot;
While all that has happened seems but a brief dream,
The glance of a sunbeam on Life's troubled stream;
