1840-50.] LOIS B. ADAMS. 331 And when he slept and when he dreamed, One form in all his visions rose, And still her angel beauty seemed The guardian of his sweet repose. Thus calm and blissful, months and years Rolled onward in their circles true, Nor dread of death, nor jealous fears Could mar the joy the artist knew. But once, alas ! in careless haste. Such as is sometimes known to all. His hand reversed his bride's sweet face, And left her smiling on the wall. When to his bower at evening dim. With glad but weary step he came, No pictured beauty smiled on him, From out her silver-tissued frame. But cold and dark the dwelling seemed, No lips were there where beauty slept, No eyes where love and fondness gleamed — The artist sat him down and wept. "Ah me ; my weary life," he cried, " My all of joy on earth is o'er. My lost, my loved, but faithless bride, Thy smile will cheer my heart no more ! " Thou simple artist, raise thy hand. And turn again that frame-work slight. So shall thy bride before thee stand, In all her changeless beauty bright. 'Tis thus that many a loving heart Hath turned its joy to bitterness. Thy own impatience points the dart, That wounds thee in thy deep distress. If e'er thou'rt shrined in woman's heart, The idol of her holiest care, O ! tremble lest thou break the spell That keeps thy worshiped image there. But shouldst thou in a thoughtless hour. Unconscious, cause the loved one pain, Remember 'tis the self-same power Can win her back to smiles again. LILLIAN GRAY. By yon low grave, where Lillian sleeps. And where the willow o'er her weeps, The wild birds love to stay ; They meet around her in the night. They sing of her at morning light, I hear them all the day ; But O, it seems a weary song. To hear them singing all day long, " We mourn for Lillian Gray." Within that grave my Lillian sleeps, Above her head the willow weeps. She has no sculptured stone ; But, day by day, an artist old Is graving with his fingers cold. My heart, to marble grown ; And all the name he traces there, From dewy morn to evening fair, Is " Lillian Gray " alone. Beneath the tree that o'er her weeps, I'll lay me where my Lillian sleeps. To guard her while I may ; For sterner seemed that form of fear, That traced the name of Lillian dear Upon my heart to-day ; I'm dying — and the wild birds sing Above the monument I bring To thee, my Lillian Gray !
