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     Dear angel, snatched from our caress,         So suddenly withdrawn,     Alone are we and comfortless;     As in a dome of emptiness         The old routine goes on,         Aimless, since thou art gone.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