William Pinkney Ewing

Never, no nevermore,
Shall thy soft hand be pressed in mine,
Or on my breast thy weary head recline,
...

Leila, thou art resting well,
In thy lonely, narrow cell-
Dark and lonely, narrow cell,-
And I would with thee had died,
...

They are gone-They are gone,
From their green mountain homes,
Where the antelope sports,
And the buffalo roams;
...

'Oh mother, dear mother,
As calmly last night
I lay on my pallet
An angel in white
...

I touch not that harp,
Let it slumber alone;
For its notes but awaken
Sad memories of one
...

I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before,
And as I feel I cannot love again;
And though that love has cost me much of pain,
...