Page:Poems Denver.djvu/65

That in them lay, since on that exile's brow
A soft, white hand was laid in tenderness,
And a sweet voice made music in his ear,
And a glad smile woke sunshine in his heart.
But these have ceased their office long ago!
The pressure of that tiny hand no more
Is on his brow—the music of that voice
Has passed away from earth, or, sendeth forth,
Like a sweet lute whose master-chord is broken,
A melancholy murmur, on the air,
In tones, that hopeless and uncertain grown,
Essays in vain, to reach the heart of him,
Who ever held them dear. The smile that caught
Its glow from the affections, lights no more
The chambers of the robbed and desolate heart,
Nor leaveth its faint trace upon the brow;
Sorrow hath swept all vestiges away,
And like a brooding spirit, keepeth watch
Within the ruined empire she hath won.

Oh! why, when all the fires have ceased to burn,
That lit the bosom with their mingled flames,
Of hope, and energy and high resolve,
Alone, will cold and spiritless life remain?—
Without warmth-giving beams and strengthening dews,
The flower will die—the stream will turn to dust,