The halls were bright with revelry,
  The beakers red with wassail;
And music’s grandest symphony
  Rung thro’ the ancient castle;
And she, the brightest of the throng,
  With wedding-veil and roses,
Seemed like the beauty of a song
  Between the organ’s pauses.

My memory paints her sweetly meek,
  With her long sunny tresses,
And how the blushes on her cheek
  Kissed back their warm caresses;
But like an angry cloud that cleaves
  Down thro’ the mists of glory,
I see the flowers a pale hand weaves
  Around a forehead gory.

The road was lone that lay between
  His, and her father’s castle,
And many a stirrup-cup, I ween,
  Quaffed he of generous wassail. 
My soul drank in a larger draught
  From the burning well of hate,
The hand that sped the murderous shaft
  Was guided by my fate.

Red shadows lay upon the sward
  That night, instead of golden—­
And long the bride’s maids wait the lord
  In the bridal-chamber olden;
Ah, well! pale hands unwove the flowers
  That bound the milk-white forehead—­
The star has sunk, the red moon glowers
  Down slopes of blackness horrid.

IN MEMORIAM.

JOHN B. ABRAHAMS, OF PORT DEPOSIT, AGED 22 YEARS.

    He giveth His beloved sleep.

    —­Psalms 127:2

From heaven’s blue walls the splendid light
Of signal-stars gleams far and bright
Down the abyssmal deeps of night.

Against the dim, dilating skies
Orion’s radiant mysteries
Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise—­

I see—­with flashing sword in hand,
With eyes sublime, and forehead grand—­
The conquering constellation stand!

And on one purple tower the moon
Hangs her white lamp—­the night wind’s rune
Floats faint o’er holt and black lagoon.

Far down the dimly shining bay
The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray,
Wraps all the golden ships away—­

The fair-sailed ships, that in the glow
Of ghostly moon and vapor go,
Like wandering phantoms, to and fro!

With mournful thought I sit alone—­
My heart is heavy as a stone,
And hath no utterance but a moan.

I think of him, who, being blest,
With pale hands crossed on silent breast,
Taketh his long unending rest;

While lone winds chant a funeral stave,
And pallid church-yard daisies wave
About his new unsodded grave.

The skies are solemn with their throng
Of choiring stars—­and deep and strong
The river moans an undersong.

Oh mournful wind!  Oh moaning river,
Oh golden planets, pausing never! 
His lips have lost your song forever!

His lips, that done with pleadings vain—­
And human sighing, born of pain—­
Are hymning heav’ns triumphal strain.

The ages tragic Rhythm of change
Clashing on projects new and strange—­
The tireless nations forward range—­