Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Smith (1806–1893)

MESEEMED as I did walk a crystal wall

Translucent in the hue of rosy morn,

And saw Eurydice, from Orpheus torn,

Lift her white brow from out its heavy pall,

With sweet lips echoing his melodious call,

And following him, love-led and music-borne,—

A sharp and broken cry, and she was gone!

Thou fairest grief, thou saddest type of all

Our sorrowing kind! O lost Eurydice!

Thy deathful cry thrilled in mine every vein,

When Orpheus turned him back, thus losing thee.

His broken lute and melancholy plain

All time prolongs,—the still unceasing flow

Of unavailing grief, and a regretful woe.