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splendor of the sun from eastern skies which know no twilight, has her life's sun gone down while it was yet day.
How often, gently and mournfully, in the lonely hour, or amid the circles once graced by her living presence, will the evening breeze waft from ocean solitudes the last recorded strains of her spirit's music!—
"Do ye think of me, my friends! do ye think of me?"
—while, as often, borne on the wing of bright remembrance to the far-off golden shore, our hearts will mourn beside the lonely grave of the lamented L. E. L., and to her touching appeal will indeed earnestly, though sadly respond—
We mourn for thee, we mourn for thee,
Daughter of Genius, crownéd Queen of Song!
Poet's and woman's birthright did belong
Alike to thee; the empire of the mind,
With the heart's gentler sway, thy power combined.
Farewell, oh, mournfully farewell!
We think of thee, we think of thee,
The richly-dowered in genius-haunted home,
Where radiant visions ministering would come;
While thou didst win from all some charmed reply,
Tuned to the soul's most touching melody.
Farewell, oh, mournfully farewell!
P
