Second Love
Could I reveal the secret joyThy presence always with it brings,The memories so strangely wakedOf long forgotten things,
The love, the hope, the fear, the grief,Which with that voice come back to me,—Thou wouldst forgive the impassioned gazeSo often turned on thee.
It was, indeed, that early love,But foretaste of this second one,—The soft light of the morning starBefore the morning sun.
The same dark beauty in her eyes,The same blonde hair and placid brow,The same deep-meaning, quiet smileThou bendest on me now,
She might have been, she WAS no moreThan what a prescient hope could make,—A dear presentiment of theeI loved but for thy sake.
Hymn Sung at the Consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.
Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death!In the false aspect of a ruthless foe,Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath—O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so?
Thou rather shouldst be crowned with fadeless flowers,Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue;Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers,But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through.
So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixedAnd beautified, O Death! thy mansion here,Where gloom and gladness—grave and garden—mixed,Make it a place to love, and not to fear.
Heaven! shed thy most propitious dews around!Ye holy stars! look down with tender eyes,And gild and guard and consecrate the groundWhere we may rest, and whence we pray to rise.