THE FORSAKEN.

He never meets me as of old, As friends less cherished meet me; His glance is even calm and cold, To welcome or to greet me: His sighs ne’er follow where I move, Or tell what others’ sighs do;— But though his lips ne’er say, “I love,” I often think his eyes do! He never turns, amid the throng, Where colder ears will listen; Or gives one thought to that poor song Once made his eyelids glisten; But sometimes when our glances meet, As looks less warm—more wise—do, Albeit his lips ne’er say, “’Tis sweet,”— I often think his eyes do! Oh! brighter smiles than mine may glass His hours of mirth or sorrow; And fairer forms than mine may pass Across his path to-morrow: But something whispers solace yet, As stars through darkened skies do;— His lips ne’er say, “I don’t forget,”— I often think his eyes do!