And that was all. The dream is o'er;The column of Pencillings in the Somerville Journal has long attracted the attention of exchange editors throughout the country. Particularly in the South and West, papers make liberal use of the mingled fun and wisdom to be found in this
No word from lip or pen;
Her smiling eyes I'll see no more,
Nor hear her voice again.
Sometimes the past will come to me
On mem'ry's grateful tide;
I sail again the western sea,
And she is by my side.
The day has melted like a dream
Beyond the billow's crest,
And softly now the moonbeams stream
Across the ocean's breast.
The night wind sounds a soothing dirge
Around the corded poles,
And, stretching far, the phosphor surge
In chastened splendor rolls. . . . .
Back from the swiftly gliding hull
There gleams a pathway white,
O'er which through all the day the gull
Has winged his silent flight.
Now with the scene comes gently forth
The music from her mouth;
Tis gone, and I am in the North,
And she is in the South.
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