And I stand in old cathedrals,
  By tombs of buried kings,
White angels bend above them—­
  Mute guard with folded wings. 
Far down the aisle the organ peals,
  The priests are knelt in prayer
And memories flood its ancient walls,
  As the music fills the air.

I may not see that blessed land,
  But she roams o’er the sod
The Lord’s pure eyes have hallowed,
  Where once His feet have trod. 
Yet He in mercy has drawn near,
  He has me comforted—­
So near He seemed I almost felt
  His hand upon my head.

And I with slow and reverent steps
  Through ancient cities roam,
Treading o’er crumbling columns,
  The dust of spire and dome;
The tall and shattered arches
  Their flickering shadows cast,
Like bent and hoary spectres,
  Low murmuring of the past.

And Isabelle toils o’er the Alps,
  Through fields of ice and snow,
To see the lofty glaciers
  Flash in the sun’s red glow. 
I feel no cold, and yet on high
  Their shining spires I see. 
Why should I envy Isabelle? 
  Why should she pity me?

Why should I envy Isabelle
  When thus so easily,
Upon a tropic flower’s perfume
  I float across the sea?

GOOD-BY.

Again I see that May moon shine,
Dost thou remember, soul of mine? 
I held your hand in mine, you know,
And as I bent to whisper low,
A tender light was in your eye,
“Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by.”

There came a time my lips were white
Beneath the pale and cold moonlight,
And burning words I might not speak,
You read, love, in my ashen cheek,
As my whole heart breathed in this one cry,
“Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by.”

Time’s waves that roll so swift and fleet
Have borne you far from me, my sweet,
Have borne you to a sunny bay,
Where brightest sunshine gilds your way,
Do these words ever dim your sky—­
Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by?

I cannot tell, but this I know
They go with me where’er I go,
I hear them in the crowded mart,
At midnight lone, they chill my heart—­
They dim for me the earth and sky,
Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart good-by.

And in that hour of mystery,
When loved ones shall bend over me,
Near ones to kiss my lips and weep,
As nearer steals the dreamless sleep,
From all I’ll turn with this last sigh,
“Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by.”

THE SEA-CAPTAIN’S WOOING.

Put the crown of your love on my forehead,
  Its sweet links clasped with a kiss,
And all the great monarchs of England
  Never wore such a gem as this. 
Give me your hand, little maiden,
  That sceptre so pearly white,
And I’ll envy not the kingliest wand
  That ever waved in might.