University of Virginia Library


143

THE CHILD-ANGEL.

It is our blessing that her lot was fair—
The precious birthright of the dew and air,
The green and shade of woods, the song of birds,
And dreams too bright for words—
All that makes moonlight for the innocent heart,
And love, that, in its bud, is still its crowning part.
The sadness of the spring-time in the shade
Of dusk—the shadows of the night array'd,
By stars in the great forests, as they look,
Glistening, as from a brook;
And stillness in the gloom, that seems a sound,
Breathed up, unconscious, out from nature's great profound
Fancies, that go beside us when we glide,
Still seeking no companion—prompt to guide
Even where we would not, to the saddest grove,
Where one still weeps for love,—
Still nursing ever a most sweet distress,
That through our very sorrow seems to bless;—
These, since the child's departure, still declare
Her precious birthright in the dew and air—
And I, that do inherit them from her,
Do feel them minister,
As with new voices never felt before,
To love that in my heart still groweth more and more.