From mine almost deserted shell,
In mournful accents yet to tell
That slumbers not its minstrelsy.
"There is an hour of deep repose,
That yet upon my heart shall close,
When all that nature dreads and knows
Shall burst upon me wondrously;
Oh, may I then awake, forever,
My harp to rapture's high endeavor;
And, as from earth's vain scene I sever,
Be lost in Immortality."
Vesta ceased a few minutes, and, her visitor saying nothing, she
remarked, with emotion.
"Those lines were written at my grandfather's house, in Accomac County,
by a young clergyman from New York, who was grandfather's rector, Rev.
James Eastburn. He was only twenty-two years old when he died, at sea,
of consumption. His is the only poetry I have ever heard of, Mr.
Milburn, written in our beautiful old country here."
"I wondered if I should ever hear you sing for me," spoke Milburn, after
hesitation. "Now it is realized, I feel sceptical about it. You are
there, Miss Custis, are you not?"
Vesta was puzzled. Under other circumstances she would have been amused,
since her humor could flow freely as her music. It faintly seemed to her
that the little odd man might be cracked in the head.
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Milburn. If it were a dream, I should have no
expression all this day but song. I think I never felt so sad to sing as
just now. Father is ill. Mamma is ill. I have become the business agent
of the family, and have heard within this hour that papa is deeply
involved.
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