III

For the cloud in the air, and the cloud in my breast
Now fill me with feeling of strange unrest ;
I long now to hear in these lonesome hours
The voice of my firstborn, more sweet than flowers,
More sweet than the songs which give me such joy
Are the tones of thy voice, my dearly-loved boy;

IV

Fair harmony is the song of the birds,

A thousand-fold sweeter are thy heart-words:
Mine idol as babe; in manhood the same,
Thou'rt part of my being, as the gold frame
Encircles a diamond, so art thou laid

Encased in the casket my strong love's made.

MATERNAL DEVOTION

PART IV

I

THOUGH cold and dark November

Brings yearly the happy morn, That ever I remember

As the day that thou wert born;

Yet bright it will be always,

And beaming a sun shall be,

That sun is Love, whose warm rays Are surely lit up for thee.

II

Then faint not when aweary

With many an uphill stride, For oft the path proves dreary While yet it is being tried;

But think of love so tender

That follows thee ev'rywhere;

A love that seeks to render

Thy young life all free from care.

III

A love that is undying,

E'en when the quick pulse grows cold;

The spirit endless sighing

Will outbreathe its yearnings old;

And send in still small voices

The unforgotten refrain:

The soul even then rejoices

In watching, loving again.

THE CRY OF THE DESERTED

ONE

I

OH, that I had some sweet magical charm,
Some secret and powerful spell

To cast over him who enchants my soul

Over him whom I love so well.

II

If only a share of the deep, deep throbs
That fill my tumultuous heart,

Were echoed in his to the smallest degree,

To even a thousandth part.

III

Oh, then would it leap with supremest joy,
Then hotly the wildfire would glow;

Oh, then would the life-stream rush through my frame,

Which slowly is languishing now!

IV

Ah, there was a time when the whisper of love
Oft came from his lips all unsought;

But now hath his heart grown cold as the sea,
And my love for him is as naught.

V

Where then shall I find the magical wand,

Or elixir worthy all cost,

To kindle again the fire of his love;

The love that is doomed to be lost.

VI

Ah, what is my beauty? my empire is gone-
What care I for woman's soft grace,

When he who's my world, my life, and my joy

No longer looks into my face?

VII

No longer dwells he on the sound of my voice

Which he singled from out the world's throng; Its music is gone; 'tis now like the lyre

Whose strings are all broken-unstrung.