She has a sunless sky, Sadly to sit and sigh, Her hope is but to die And end the pain; She thinks of other days When life had sunny rays, Such thoughts as nearly craze Her busy brain.
Crushed hopes crowding come, Dead joys, in a darkened home, Lost love so lately known, Make life so drear; What is there left her now? What peace has earth to show? What bliss can life bestow That once was dear?
She sits in twilight dim, Vainly awaiting him, Watching the shadows grim Go faintly past; Till night, lone and still, Veils earth, dark and chill, How kind could sorrow kill By one cold blast.
But there she sits alone, Lists for that tender tone, Lately it was her own, Fondly to hear; How all is still and cold, No ray can hope unfold, Her young heart has grown old In one short year.
Life’s early winter ’s come, Clouded her happy home, Made grief and woe her own, Heartsore and sad; Who could existence crave? Her love is in the grave; Would she die and save Her going mad!
Heart bowed in deep despair, Oh, God! hear thou her prayer; Let time her loss repair, And spring once more Smile o’er her clouded years; Give her the hope that cheers, Wipe out her widow’s tears And peace restore.
The first on the list is President Boyce, “The head of the heap,” and the Lyceum’s choice, Whose seeming set habits in bachelor ways Is all that robs him of womanly praise.
The next that comes under my critical pen, At the president’s table sits fair Mrs. Glenn, A lady so rich in pleasing pen powers That we oftentimes wish her minutes were hours.
And then Mr. Cole, so sober and sage, Whose late recitations have been quite the rage; He, too, ’s in the market--I beg you won’t tell, For the girls will pursue him and find it a “sell.”
Now dear Mrs. Goodrich, our matron of mind, Who can be both Biddy and Lady combined; With much versatility, logic and fun, We welcome her always as “A Number one.”
In _strides_ Mr. Hollister, tall and profound, Who refuses to see when a laugh may be found; Who relishes Bennett’s rejecting Miss May, As though the stale tidings were fresh of to-day.
Then chimes the “sweet singer,” Miss Huston--Ah, me! What would the Lyceum do without thee? With her silverest tones and dreamiest look, To recite the sad “Bells” and sing the sweet “Brook.”