To darken their web of woe;
And a brighter thread to the glad of heart,
And a mingled one for all;
But the dark and the light I can not part,
Nor alter their hues at all.
THE DESERTED CITY.
I had been weeping—not the April dew
That leaves the heart the lighter for the shedding;
But drops of anguish, from a fountain full
Of bitter waters—troubled, too, and deep.
Till the moon rose to the horizon's brim
And looking o'er the earth with a calm smile,
Went on her peaceful way among the stars,
I sat with brow bared to the balmy breath
Of the soft breeze of evening, as it came
Whispering around me with a lulling song,
Kissing most tenderly my fevered brow,
Wooing the agony from my wild pulse,
And striving by its blandishments to steal
My soul away into forgetfulness.
And when the moon, like a sweet white-robed mother,
In all her pensive loveliness uprose,
And went forth, with her still white feet, among
The stars, her sleeping children, with a smile
Of mingled majesty and matchless love,
I raised my eyes as a lone orphan would,
Longing for the great bliss of tenderness;
And lo! the light of her angelic face
Was bent upon me—sad, but oh, so sweet!
