(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1868.)
Hope new born one pleasant morn Died at even;Hope dead lives nevermore. No, not in heaven.
If his shroud were but a cloud To weep itself away;Or were he buried underground To sprout some day!But dead and gone is dead and gone Vainly wept upon.
Nought we place above his face To mark the spot,But it shows a barren place In our lot.Hope has birth no more on earth Morn or even;Hope dead lives nevermore, No, not in heaven.