A LOST FRIEND.
DEAR, I dreamt of you last Sunday even ;
Slumbrous was the sermon, and the heat
Weighed mine eyelids down, and summer perfumes
Stole in on the breezes, slow and sweet :
Leaning back, I half thought — " God is tender,
Will not chide my sleeping at His feet."
Swiftly, like the Mene and Upharsin,
Came a name upon my vision thrown ;
Name of her who till one day, one moment,
Was the noblest, rarest woman known.
Then the preacher's voice came through my slumbers.
" He that sinneth not may cast a stone."
Oh, my darling ! drowned out past remembrance,
Would that I had died for thee, my friend !
Any death that had but slain the body,
Any death that with the life would end ;
If a message could but reach you, reach you,
What beseeching prayer would I send !
