 ―110―
For the Literary Magazine.
to laura, offended.
| | Three days had passed with linger-
ing steps away, |
| | While I to narrow verge confined, |
| | To body's pain and solitude a prey, |
| | And sad unrest of mind. |
| | The fourth serene and painless rose, |
| | I hie me to thy door; |
| | It opens, but thy altered aspect shews |
| | An open heart no more. |
| | A stranger I, thou hail'd'st me Friend
no more; |
| | Nor welcome sweet bestowed: |
| | No questions that the absent past ex-
plore, |
| | In tender accents flow'd. |
| | A brow, alas! severely bent, was
thine; |
| | Reluctant was thy hand; |
| | Thy eyes, that so serenely us'd to
shine, |
| | Their sternest glance command. |
|
| | To tedious exile from thy converse, I, |
| | By sickly blasts consigned, |
| | A respite from the long-drawn, lonely
sigh, |
| | At some time hoped to find. |
| | Ah, Laura, wilt thou snatch that hope
away? |
| | And lost must I believe thee? |
| | Not merely take from life its dearest
stay |
| | Of life itself bereave me. |
|
―110―