The Lovers' Last Meeting.
IT was a calm, still, Sabbath eve—no breeze
Went o'er the sleeping flowers, no murmured sound,
From Nature's harp of many voices, rose
Upon the deep and strange serenity
Of the lone death of day. The Lovers met
In the sweet silence of that holy eve,
Once more upon the old, familiar spot
Of love's dear tryst. Dark months had passed away
Since they had gazed together on that scene
Of deepest, keenest raptures. That young girl,
Even in her girlhood's rip cuing flush, seethed old,
And worn in soul. Her pale and withering cheek
Told to the heart the tale of many a wild,
Fierce struggle of a spirit unsubdued.
Went o'er the sleeping flowers, no murmured sound,
From Nature's harp of many voices, rose
Upon the deep and strange serenity
Of the lone death of day. The Lovers met
In the sweet silence of that holy eve,
Once more upon the old, familiar spot
Of love's dear tryst. Dark months had passed away
Since they had gazed together on that scene
Of deepest, keenest raptures. That young girl,
Even in her girlhood's rip cuing flush, seethed old,
And worn in soul. Her pale and withering cheek
Told to the heart the tale of many a wild,
Fierce struggle of a spirit unsubdued.
