DEAD AND FORGOT.

Dead and forgot! How sad the lot When wintry tempests blow To lie all cold 'Neath the churchyard mould, And in a year or so To have our very name unsaid, Unless it chance to fall From careless lips that say, "She's dead,"— She's dead, and that is all!

But sadder still That one should fill The place we thought our own: That a form more light, And an eye more bright Should guard our dear hearth-stone; That where we strayed another's feet At morn and eve should roam, And another's voice—perchance more sweet— Make music in our home!

That where we locked Our hands and talked Amid our chosen flowers, The lips we pressed Should be caressed By other lips than ours,— That other eyes should watch for him, And other arms embrace, Until our image growing dim Yield to another's face.

And this is love! O injured Dove! Thy wings have many a stain: But pure and white In the Land of Light They shall be spread again; The deep, true love our spirits crave Earth has never supplied; Nor till we leave the dreary grave Shall we be satisfied.