Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1879-06-10
4a|ss
O E II r Y

POET RY.
IN A LONELY HOUR.
If could hold your hands tonight
Just for little while, and know
That only I, of all the world,
Possessed them SO.
A slender shape in that old chair,
II could see you here tonight,
Between me and the twilight pale
So light and frail.
Your cool white dress, its foldings lost
In one broad sweep of shadow gray;
Your weary head just dropped aside,
The sweet old way.
Bowed like a f1ower-cup dashed with rain
The darkness crossing half your face,
And just the glimmer of smile
For one to trace.
If I could see your eyes that reach
Far out into the farthest sky,
Where past the trail of dying suns,
The old years lie;
Or touch our silent lips tonight,
And steal the sadness from their smile,
And find the last kiss they have kept
This weary while!
fit could be-oh, all in vain
The restless trouble of my soul
Sets, as the great tides of the moon,
Toward your control.
In vain the longing OF the lips,
The eyes desire, and btooless pain;
The hunger of the heart-O love,
Is 1t in vain?
For the SPECTATOR.
MY OWN GRAVE IN A VISION.
The birds were on the leafy trees,
The flowers looking gay,
When, to the silent churchyard,
Wended my lonely way.
1 stood beside the grassy mound
That held my sleeping clay,
Not cen a sigh escaped my lips
That had passed away.
All, no! felt that was free
From every earthly pain.
And that 1 never would be call'd
To suffer here again.
A white rose grew above my head,
Auu dt NY Icet d pluc,
And these are just what would have
Adorp the grave that's mine.
A bright bird sang her matin song
Upon the little tree,
That had been planted at my feet
To guard my memory;
And here her little nest was built,
Her fiedgelings taught to fly,-
Fit type of spirits that are freed,
And soar to worlds on high.
This bird was wounded while abroad
By some unfeeling knave,
But came upon weary wing
Back to my lonely grave.
And while the blood was oozing from
The death wound in her breast,
The little birds continued still
To sing within ner nest.
She duttered through the darkened bough
And fell upon my feet.
But with her latest breath she sang
A song both low and sweet;
Then dead beneath the little pine
The mother bird did lie.
No more with her delightful songs
To cheer the passer-by.
But, CHI a lesson she had taught,
Beneath that verdant tree. $50
That through the changing scenes Of life
My Polar star would be.
thought if little birds could sing
While dying and in pain,
Why could aUe not be happy here
Amid earth's dark refrain.
The sun withdrew behind the clouds,
1t then in torrents rained,
But found shelter meath a tree
And there long remained.
saw a form approach my grave.
The stately steps knew,
And felt that to my mould'ring dust
One heart. at least, was true.
But, oh, tbs figure was SO changed,
The look was SO foTlcrn.
That could scarcely realize
The changes time had worn;
And then amid the rain and storm
In silence he did stand,
AS if his thoughts were wandering to
The far-oF Spirit Land.
The rain and storm are over now,
The sun is shining bright,
The figure in the vision seen,
Has vanished from my sight;
That vision strange of mine, was fraught
With many placid joy,
And "drank deep" of crystal streams,
That cen would years employ.
But now my bosom heaves sigh,
The 'debt' has not been paid,
And through streams of sorrow here
I still am left to wade.
But, oh some days must gloomy be
With no bright birds to sing
When we reach our Fathers house
Well find perpetual Spring.
U. W. v,