TO ISABEL A Beautiful Little Girl.
Fair as some sea-child, in her coral bower, Decked with the rare, rich treasures of the deep; Mild as the spirit of the dream whose power Bears back the infant's soul to heaven, in sleep Brightens the hues of summer's first-born flower Pure as the tears repentant mourners weep O'er deeds to which the siren, Sin, beguiled,-- Art thou, sweet, smiling, bright-eyed cherub child.
Thy presence is a spell of holiness, From which unhallowed thoughts shrink blushing back,-- Thy smile is a warm light that shines to bless, As beams the beacon o'er the wanderer's track,-- Thy voice is music, at whose sounds Distress Unbinds her writhing victim from the rack Of misery, and charmed by what she hears, Forgets her woes, and smiles upon her tears.
And when I look upon thee, bearing now The promise of such loveliness, I ask If time will blight, that promise; if thy brow, So sunny now, will learn to wear the mask Of hollow smiles, or cold deceit, whilst thou Art learning in thy soul the bitter task Time teaches to all bosoms, when the glow Of hope is o'er--but this I may not know.
My path will not be near to thine through life,-- Kind ones will guard and fondly shelter thee; Me bitterness awaits, and care and strife, And all that sorrow has of agony; My future, as my past was, will be rife With heartaches, and the pangs that "pass not by;" Each hour shall give thee some new pleasure; years, Long years can bring me only toil 'and tears.
'Tis meet that it should be so,--I have made A wreck of my own happiness, and cast Across my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shade That wrinkled age flings over all at last But let it go,--I have too long delayed The remedy, and what is past is past;-- And could I live those vanished moments o'er, My heart would wander as it strayed before.
I know not how it is,--my heart is stern, And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness; Yet looking on thy young brow it will yearn, And in my bosom's innermost recess, Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burn With a wild strength which nothing can repress! Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the cold And heavy clay--clod mingle with her mould?
Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom, Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move, I trace the lineaments of one to whom My soul was wedded in an early love,-- 'Twas in my boyhood; but the insatiate tomb Claimed her fair form, and for the realms above Her spirit fled the earth; oh! how I wept That mine should in its bondage still be kept.
I mind the hour I stood beside the clay I had so loved in life--it still was fair, Surpassing fair, in death; and as she layWith the thick tresses of her long dark hair Gathered above the brow whence feeling's ray Had fled, because death's shadow darkened there, Her more than earthly beauty made her seem The incarnation of some pure bright dream.
I stood and gazed: the pale grave sheet was wound About the form from which life's spark was fled, For ever fled,--wet eyes were weeping round, And voices full of sorrow mourned the dead; I could not weep; a sadness more profound Than that from which those heart-drops, tears, are shed, Was in my soul,--for then the icy spell Of desolation freezing o'er me fell.
