THE PARTING.

BY FREDERIC MELLEN.

She pass'd, and yet I still gazed on and wept.

WALTER

WELL! be it so !-and part!
I would not even look upon thy brow,

Though for the last sad time;-my heart
Is cold and wither'd now.

Yet still I gaze at thee;
Like one whose vision resteth on his home,

As the dark ship speeds o'er the troubled sea, Breasting the surge's foam.

And as in slumber, oft,
Glimpses of that bright clime his heart expand;

And low sweet tones, as angel music soft,
Whisper of' father land ;'

So in my lonely hours,
Like to the sea-boy's dream, thy voice shall send

Its low sweet music there, and, wreath'd in flowers, Thy spirit o'er me bend.

And in the summer's eve,
When winds and waves are gather'd to their sleep;

And the cold evening mist begins to weave
Its shrouds upon the deep;

Beneath the star's pale light;
When the dull eye is slumb'ring, and the moan

Of the deep shadow'd woods, far through the night, Breaks on the ear alone,

I'll come to thee; and tell
Of long past days; life's earliest, happiest time,

When ling’ring on our path we heard the swell Of the deep surge's chime;

And look'd into the sky, And saw the clouds float through the starlight clear,

And felt within our hearts, we know not why, A withering, nameless fear.

The cloud is o'er us now! That nameless dread too truly wrought its spell;

It breath'd to us long, tearful hours of wo, To happiness—a knell.

THE END.

Philadelphia:
Printed by James Kay, Jun. & Co.

Library Street.