2 JANUARY 1875, Page 14

POETRY.

TO DEATH.

ALL mirth that jocund spirits know ; All joy that happiest lives contain ; All youth that Heaven gives free from stain ;

All truth that hath but lies for foe,—

These were our gladsome lot before the pain That fell on me just now with sudden blow.

These were my own, when not yet from me ta'en, She prayed the Pale Horse would at least step slow.

Gone is the light from out my life, Stays but the chill grey world unkind ; Gone is the darling mistress,—wife !

But when she drew her last dear breath, To what sphere passed her matchless mind?

Men call life "hard." But more hard DEATH.

31st December, 1874.