PART VI. THE MEMORY OF LOVE ASSOCIATES ITS CONSOLATIONS WITH ITS HOPES.

Now the eastern hill-top fadeth From the arid wastes forlorn, And the only tree that shadeth Has the scant leaves of the thorn. Not a home to smile before me, Not a voice to cheer is heard; Hush! the thorn-leaves tremble o'er me,— Hark, the carol of a bird! Unto air what charm is given? Angel, as a link to thee, Midway between earth and heaven Hangs the delicate melody! How it teacheth while it chideth, Is the pathway so forlorn? Mercy over man presideth, And—the bird sings from the thorn. Floating on, the music leads me, As the pausing-place I leave, And the gentle wing precedes me Through the lullèd airs of eve. Stay, O last of all the number, Bathing happy plumes in light, Till the deafness of the slumber, Till the blindness of the night. Only for the vault to leave thee, Only with my life to lose; Let my closing eyes perceive thee, Fold thy wings amid the yews.