A SONG THAT WAS NEVER SUNG.

Thou sayest our friends are only dead To idle mirth and sorrow, Regretful tears for what is fled, And yearnings for to-morrow. Alas, that love should know alloy— How frail the cup that holds our joy!

Thou sighest, "How sweet it were to rove Those paths of asphodel; Where all we prize, and all who love, Rejoice!" Ah, who can tell? Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand, To lead thee through a better land.

Why wish the fleeting years to stay?— When time for us is flown, There is this garden,—far away, An Eden all our own: And there I'll whisper in thine ear —Ah! what I may not tell thee here!