But after comes a steadier light,
A long and lasting dream;
Like the full heaven which the sun
Flings down on life's dark stream.
One lingers—for she dares not trust
Her lamp upon the wave;
She knows the omen ere it come—
Her heart is its own grave.
There is a love that in the soul
Burns silent and alone;
Tho' all of early happiness
Has long, too long been flown.
But, like the lotus, whose soft depths
Receive the morning sun;
The true fond flower still looks to heaven,
Though light and day are done.
But she, amid her gladder friends,
Leans pensive on the strand;
She keeps her fairy bark unlaunched,
Beside her trembling hand.
Why should she send her fairy freight
To question future pain;
She knows her utter misery—
She loves, and loves in vain.
I pray his pardon, he who traced
The graceful forms I see;
Oh, magic painter! to thy skill
The spirit yields its key.
The treasures of these distant lands
Are given to thy will;
But thou hast yet a dearer charm—
The heart obeys thy skill.
L. E. L.
