THE FORLORN.

THE night is dark, the stinging sleet,
Swept by the bitter gusts of air,

Drives whistling down the lonely street,
And stiffens on the pavement bare.

The street-lamps flare and struggle dim Through the white sleet-clouds as they pass,

Or, governed by a boisterous whim,

Drop down and rattle on the glass.

One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl
Faces the east-wind's searching flaws,
And, as about her heart they whirl,

Her tattered cloak more tightly draws.

The flat brick walls look cold and bleak,

Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze; Yet dares she not a shelter seek,

Though faint with hunger and disease.

The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, And, piercing through her garments thin, Beats on her shrunken breast, and there Makes colder the cold heart within.

She lingers where a ruddy glow

Streams outward through an open shutter,

Giving more bitterness to woe,

More loneness to desertion utter.

One half the cold she had not felt,
Until she saw this gush of light

Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt

Its slow way through the deadening night.

She hears a woman's voice within,

Singing sweet words her childhood knew,

And years of misery and sin

Furl off and leave her heaven blue.

Her freezing heart, like one who sinks
Outwearied in the drifting snow,

Drowses to deadly sleep, and thinks
No longer of its hopeless woe:

Old fields, and clear blue summer days,
Old meadows, green with grass and trees,
That shimmer through the trembling haze

And whiten in the western breeze,

Rises within her heart again,

And sunshine from her childhood cast

Makes summer of the icy rain.

Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow,

From all humanity apart,

She hears old footsteps wandering slow

Through the lone chambers of her heart.

Outside the porch before the door,

Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone,

She lies, no longer foul and poor,

No longer dreary and alone.

Next morning, something heavily
Against the opening door did weigh,
And there, from sin and sorrow free,
A woman on the threshold lay.

A smile upon the wan lips told

That she had found a calm release, And that, from out the want and cold, The song had borne her soul in peace.

For, whom the heart of Man shuts out, Straightway the heart of God takes in,

And fences them all round about

With silence mid the world's loud din ;

And one of his great charities

Is Music, and it doth not scorn

1842.

To close the lids upon the eyes
Of the polluted and forlorn;

Far was she from her childhood's home,
Farther in guilt had wandered thence,

Yet thither it had bid her come

To die in maiden innocence.