by M.B.
Originally published in Tinsley's Magazine (Tinsley Brothers) vol.2 #7 (Mar 1868).
Quench'd is the light of his belovéd face,
Quench'd is the lovelight that awoke her soul;
Silent his utterance, order'd, sweet, and whole,—
The music's mute that charm'd her to her place.
His cordial hand, that firm right hand which writ
These letters, brimm'd with genius, knowledge, grace,
Must never, nevermore clasp hers, or trace
Like noble words—the grave hath frozen it.
And she henceforth must do, and think, and will,
In doubt forlorn if it be well or ill,
Now brain and heart that made him great and dear,
Temple and breast, are struck for ever still—
‘Mine beat, mine ache,' she moans; 'Impossible
That he should cease, and I continue here!'