_Florence_, July 5th, 1861.
"When some beloved voice that was to you
Both sound and sweetness faileth suddenly,
And silence, against which you dare not cry,
Aches round you like a strong disease and new,--
What hope? what help? what music will undo
That silence to your sense? Not friendship's sigh,--
Not reason's subtle count,--not melody
Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus blew,--
Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales,
Whose hearts leap upward through the cypress-trees
To the clear moon,--nor yet the spheric laws
Self-chanted,--nor the angels' sweet All-hails,
Met in the smile of God. Nay, none of these!
Speak THOU, availing Christ, and fill this pause!"
Thus sang the Muse of a great woman years ago; and now, alas! she, who,
with constant suffering of her own, was called upon to grieve often for
the loss of near and dear ones, has suddenly gone from among us, "and
silence, against which we dare not cry, aches round us like a strong
disease and new." Her own beautiful words are our words, the world's
words,--and though the tears fall faster and thicker, as we search
for all that is left of her in the noble poems which she bequeaths to
humanity, there follows the sad consolation in feeling assured that she
above all others _felt_ the full value of life, the full value of death,
and was prepared to meet her God humbly, yet joyfully, whenever He
should claim her for His own.
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