Weekly Calaveras Chronicle

"Name she had none,"
No home, though a thousand doors
Stand open; though floods of light,
Streaming from the halls and stores,
Shine on the streets by night!
No shelter, though doors are wide;
No pity, though wealth untold
Is given; though winds are cold.
No hand to lead her inside!
No rest, though the sad feet ache;
No mercy, no word of cheer;
No eye, for her poor frail sake,
Dim with a sister's tear!
No shelter, though limbs are stiff;
No help, though the throat is dry
No question of voices nigh;
No drying of eyes from grief!
No supper, though hunger gnaws
With a fierce and gripping whine;
No draught though the goblet pours
O'er the carpets its golden wine!
No seat in the ample hall,
No chair by the blazing fire;
No sleep for the eyes that tire;
No ear that will hear her call
No light, though the proud red sun
Brings in the golden day;
No peace, when the days are done,
When the twilight dies away
No hope in the stars of heaven,
No hope in the skies above,
No dream of the long-dead love,
No prayer for the old hearts riven!
No weary footsteps mounting,
No jewels of hers abroad;
Broken the bowl at the fountain,
Loosened the silver cord!
Only one missed on the morrow;
Only a river flowing;
Only a tired soul going
Where there is no more sorrow!