Alas! alas! my dearest,
The look of pain thou wearest!
The kisses thou dost bend to give
Are parting ones to-day!
Thy sheltering arms are round me,
But the cruel pain hath found me.
What shall I do with all this love
When thou art gone away?
Ah well! One poor endeavor
Shall nerve me while we sever:
I will not fret my hero's heart
With piteous sobs and tears.
I send thee forth, my dearest,
My truest and my rarest,
And yield thee to the keep of Him
Who blessed our happier years.
Once more good-bye! and bless thee!
My faltering lips caress thee.
When shall I feel thy hand again
Go kindly o'er my hair?
Let the dear arms that fold me
One last sweet moment hold me:
In life or death our love shall be
No weaker for the wear!
HOWARD GLYNDON.
A NIGHT IN BEDFORD, VIRGINIA.
"The general has been sending his ambulance"--Bless these ambulances!
they are as common in Virginia as hen-nest grass or clumps of
sassafras--"to the depot every morning for three or four days for
you."
"The deuce he has! Then why didn't he let me know by letter, as I
asked him to do?"
"Can't say, really."
This conversation took place in the main street of the extraordinary
city of Lugston--a city so very peculiar that I must give it an entire
article some day.
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