The die is cast, come weal, come woe,
Two lives are joined together,
For better or for worse, the link
Which naught but death can sever.
The die is cast, come grief, come joy.
Come richer, or come poorer,
If love but binds the mystic tie,
Blest is the bridal hour.
When the heavens with stars are gleaming
Like a diadem of light,
And the moon’s pale rays are streaming,
Decking earth with radiance bright;
When the autumn’s winds are sighing,
O’er the hill and o’er the lea,
When the summer time is dying,
Wanderer, wilt thou think of me?
When thy life is crowned with gladness,
And thy home with love is blest,
Not one brow o’ercast with sadness,
Not one bosom of unrest—
When at eventide reclining,
At thy hearthstone gay and free,
Think of one whose life is pining,
Breathe thou, love, a prayer for me.
Should dark sorrows make thee languish,
Cause thy cheek to lose its hue,
In the hour of deepest anguish,
Darling, then I’ll grieve with you.
Though the night be dark and dreary,
And it seemeth long to thee,
I would whisper, “be not weary;”
I would pray love, then, for thee.
Well I know that in the future,
I may cherish naught of earth;
Well I know that love needs nurture,
And it is of heavenly birth.
But though ocean waves may sever
I from thee, and thee from me,
Still this constant heart will never,
Never cease to think of thee.
I am the month when roses
Bloom brightest o’er the glade,
I am the month when marriages
I lost happily are made.
Mine is the time of foliage,
When hills and valleys teem
With buds and vines sweet scented,
All clothed in glowing green.
My nights are bright and starry,
My days are long and clear
And truly I’m the fairest,
Of all months in the year.
With night dews gently falling,
With bees upon the wing,
And tiny rills soft rippling
Amid the valleys sing.
The farmer with his ploughshare,
Swift turning up the sod,
His brawny arms at labor,
His soul with Nature’s God.
The Lark with sweetest carol,
Doth greet the rising sun,
The Mock-bird at the even,
Loud whistles day is done.
O! I’m the month of beauty,
The summer’s crown I claim,
Now whisper to me softly,
And tell me what’s my name.
O! sing ye a dirge for the loved and the lost,
That have found them a home ’neath the coral reefs deep;
That have laid them to rest ’neath the murmuring surge,
Where the whistling wind wails o’er their sweet, but sad sleep.
They have gone to their home—their last resting-place
The blue waves embraced and called them their own;
While the depths of the sea and the billows thereof
Are mournfully sighing their sad requiem.
Down, down through the mass of the waters they sped,
Amid the dark chambers so mystic, so drear;
’Till perchance they selected some ruby-lit bed,
To sleep their last sleep ’mid jeweled gems rare.
O! ’tis sweet now to ponder, though many have gone
To that far-off bourne whence no traveller returns,
That the sea shall not always their bodies retain,
For Jehovah hath said, she must yield them again.
One bright little jewel outlived the dark storm,
So fatal to many, yet—blissful to tell—
His “Father in heaven” preserved him from harm,
O, parent rejoice! with your Louis ’tis well.
O, insatiable monster! Could’st thou not
In pity turn aside thy venomed shaft
From her my gifted, darling friend?
Has sympathy within thy breast
No trysting place? That thou must come
At spring-time when the flowerets bloom
To bear my loved one to the tomb?
So young was she; life’s woes had not yet dimmed
The joyous sunshine of her girlhood’s days;
She did not quaff the dregs of time,
But, like some rosebud prematurely culled,
She sped away, and o’er her grave
So peacefully the willows wave,
And dewdrops, her calm bosom lave.
Tread not the earth where sleeps my loved one’s form;
But place it lightly on her marble brow.
Bid birdies sing at set of sun
To gladden Fannie’s lowly home;
Bid rippling springs with shining spray,
And sylvan notes and songsters lay
Unite, to chase the gloom away.
Blest child! she did not tarry long, and yet—
O, happy thought—she did not live in vain,
If truly she did seek and find
The “Pearl of Price,” that precious boon,
Then ne’er to her could come too soon
The summons to an early tomb.
Blest child, rest! while gentle zephyrs breathe
Their fragrance through the waving trees;
All nature decked in gorgeous array
Is reveling now, but soon alas!
Like thee, ’twill fade. The autumn’s knell
Will ere long peal like funeral bell
Its dirgelike sounds, “Friend, fare thee well.”
Life’s stormy surge had scarcely touched
Her blooming, beauteous brow,
When rudely torn from earthly bliss,
A budded, broken flower.
Methinks I see her brilliant eye,
When smiles played softly there,
As gentle as the summer’s breeze,
So radiant, sweet and clear.
But ah! frail nature gave away,
And she was doomed to die,
So young in years, so bright, so fair.
In the cold grave to lie.
So to the realms of light and life
Her uncaged spirit fled;
There to remain until the trump
Shall sound to wake the dead.
There with the Saviour she abides,
There tunes the sacred lyre,
Regardless of th’ impending day,
And dreading not its ire.
I’ll think of thee, mine own, dear one
As morn’s first blushing ray
Diffuses light o’er the dim earth—
Turns darkness into day.
I’ll think of thee at eve, my love,
When moon and star appear—
When in the horizon of my hope
All, all is bright and clear.
I’ll think of thee when joy doth cast
Its gladness o’er my heart,
As peace, and love and happiness
Seem new life to impart.
I’ll think of thee when dark shades fall
Athwart my fevered brow;
When low in death I hear thee lisp—
“I’m waiting for thee now.”
I’ll think of thee, my darling
