SHE was my idol. Night and day to scan
The fine expression of her form, and mark
The unfolding mind like vernal rose-bud start
To sudden beauty, was my chief delight.
To find her fairy footsteps following me,
Her hand upon my garments, or her lip
Close sealed to mine, and in the watch of night
The quiet breath of innocence to feel
Soft on my cheek, was such a full content
Of happiness as none but mothers know.
Her voice was like some tiny harp that yields
To the light-fingered breeze; and as it held
Brief converse with her doll, or kindly soothed
Her moaning kitten, or with patient care
Conned o'er the alphabet — but most of all
Its tender cadence in her evening prayer-
Thrilled on the ear like some ethereal tone
Heard in sweet dreams. But now alone I sit,
Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears
The little robes that once with woman's pride
I wrought, as if there were a need to deck
A being formed so beautiful. I start,
Half fancying from her empty crib there comes
A restless sound, and breathe the accustomed
"Hush, hush, Louisa, dearest!
As though it were a sin to speak to one
Whose home is with the angels.
And yet I wish I had not seen the pang
That wrung her features, nor the ghostly white
Setting around her lips. I would that heaven
Had taken its own, like some transplanted
In all its bloom and freshness.
Be still, my heart! What could a mother's
In all the wildest ecstasy of hope,
Ask for its darling like the bliss of heaven?
GOD takes the beautiful, the best;
They are but lent, not given :
He sets" His jewels" on His breast,
That they may shine in heaven.
O SUNSHINE, making golden spots
Upon the carpet at my feet-
The shadows of the coming flowers!
The phantoms of forget-me-nots
And roses red and sweet!-
How can you seem so full of joy,
And we so sad at heart and sore?-
Angel of death! again thy wings
Are folded at our door!
We can but yearn through length of days
For something lost we fancied ours:
We'll miss thee, darling, when the spring
Has touched the world to flowers!
For thou wast like that dainty month
Which strews the violets at its feet:
Thy life was slips of golden sun
And silver tear-drops braided sweet!
For thou wast light and thou wast shade,
And thine were sweet capricious ways!-
Now lost in purple languors, now
No bird in ripe red summer days
Was half as wild as thou!
O little presence! everywhere
We find some touching trace of thee— A pencil mark upon the wall
That "naughty hands" made thoughtlessly: And broken toys around the house
Where he has left them they have lain,
Waiting for little busy hands
That will not come again,-
Will never come again !
Within the shrouded room below
He lies a-cold—and yet we know
It is not Charlie there!
It is not Charlie, cold and white,
It is the robe, that, in his flight,
He gently cast aside!
Our darling hath not died!
O rare pale lips! O clouded eyes!
O violet eyes grown dim!
Ah, well, this little lock of hair
Is all of him that we can keep
For loving kisses, and the thought Of him and death may teach us more Than all our life hath taught!
God, walking over starry spheres,
Did clasp his tiny hand,
And led him, through a fall of tears,
Into the mystic land!
Who asks of heaven, "Why does it rain?" Angel! we bless thee, for thy kiss
Hath hushed the lips of Pain!
No "Wherefore?" or "To what good end?"
Shall out of doubt and anguish creep
Into our thought. We bow our heads:
He giveth His beloved sleep!
MOURN not o'er early graves — for those
Removed whilst only buds are shown,
For God, who sowed and watered, knows
The time to gather in his own.
This blossom knows no winter's breath,
Sheltered beneath the Almighty wing;
And though it felt the stroke of death,
Blest babe! it never knew its sting.
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