POETRY.
HE DISENCHANTED LAKE.
I DO not wish on that isle-flowering, fair, Moon-lighted water e'er to float again, The ghosts of golden summers would be there Piercing one's heart with eyes of speechless pain ; I should be listening for a starry strain, A tender voice that down the mountain side In maiden ecstasy rejoicing cried, And on the dusk lake's smooth and shimmering plain In love's confiding whisper sank and died.
They say, in no new land, by no far shore,
Those artless accents I may hearken more,
Who say, we nothing know—omniscient they !—
That after death there breaks no deathless day.— I cannot read the riddle, thread the strife, But yet somehow the simplest faith it seems, The eye was made for seeing, the mind for dreams, The pining spirit for immortal life.
JOSEPH TRUMAN.
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