By Mary M. Patterson

With thee to list the matin song Of happy birds, in joyous June, When weeping hope with love grew strong– And heart with heart kept blissful tune, No more!

To call thee mine, no! nevermore! To spread for thee thy favorite fare, To watch thy footfall at the door, Life's all of joy and sweetest care– No more!

To clasp thy bleeding pulseless brow, Within my own frail fond embrace, To stay that hand which laid thee low, Or plead of death with thee a place, No more!

Through pain and tears, to hope, to pray, Yet see the vision still depart, To watch the tempter lure away The untold riches of the heart, No more!

Through long, long years to seek, to yearn, In vain for human sympathy, To pour the heart without return, And see the enchantress mocking me, No more!

Sweet words, glad words! O bear me on– On to the triumph, when to bear This weight of woe As Written: wo up to the Crown, Is thus to struggle, or despair, No more!