Of Her who Died.

We look up to the stars tonight,
    Idolatrous of them,
And dream that Heaven is in sight,
And each a ray of purest light
    From some celestial gem
    In her bright diadem.

Before that lonely home we wait,
    Ah! nevermore to see
Her lovely form within the gate
Where heart and hearthstone desolate
    And vine and shrub and tree
    Seem asking: "Where is she?"

There is the cottage Love had planned -
    Where hope in ashes lies -
A tower beautiful to stand,
Her monument whose gentle hand
    And presence in the skies
    Make home of Paradise.

In wintry bleakness nature glows
    Beneath the stellar ray;
We see the mold, but not the rose,
And meditate if knowledge goes
    Into yon mound of clay,
    With her who passed away.

Of sighs, and tears, and joys denied
    Do echoes reach up there?
Do seraphs know - God does - how wide
And deep is sorrow's bitter tide
    Of dolor and despair,
    And darkness everywhere?

Dear angel, snatched from our caress,
    So suddenly withdrawn,
Alone are we and comfortless;
As in a dome of emptiness
    The old routine goes on,
    Aimless, since thou art gone.

Oh, dearer unto us than aught
    In all the world beside
Of thee to cherish blessed thought;
So early thy sweet mission wrought,
    As friend, as promised bride,
    Who lived, and loved, and died.