9

T

YORK

ALOR, LENOX A

Who shall describe her sudden scream of joy,
Joy for an instant free from all alloy,

As she descries the well remembered face

Where death's rude hand her glance refused to trace?
Or who the speechless gloom and horror show,
That makes no sobs to swell, no tears to flow,
With which she mourns her hopes forever fled,
And sits and gazes on the silent dead?
All other sights she heedeth not, nor sees
The frozen glance, nor hears upon the breeze
The struggling groans of them that die, nor fears
The wretch who with far other thought appears.
E'en he, the plunderer of the unconscious corse,
Touched with a sudden feeling of remorse,
Turning to other prey, and passing by,

Respects that maiden's silent agony.

E. P.