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THE THREE LOCKS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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55

THE THREE LOCKS.

I lay them gently on my open palm—
Three locks of hair—the golden, dark and white;
My spirit wakes from apathetic calm,
As the known tokens greet my eager sight.
And Memory beckons from the distant past
A train of spectral fancies to my ken;
Age, Youth and Childhood,—O, how sweet and fast
Come love and joy to my cold heart again!
Father! I see thee now, as when thy prime
Gave vigorous promise of thy lengthened years,—
That a broad lapse would intervene in time,
Dividing present joy from future tears.
And the assurance given was fulfilled;
A garner full of years was life to thee,
And when that kindly heart in death was stilled,
We kissed the rod, and bowed to Heaven's decree.
Calmly to death, to sleep serene, thou passed;
World-worn and weary, thou wert ready now!
Strange that my tears should flow so free and fast
As when this lock I took from off thy brow.

56

Brother! the raven's sable plume ne'er shone
With glossier lustre in the eye of day
Than this last trophy which affection won
From the loved form that cold before me lay.
O, Death! how bitter was the pang when riven
Became the tender bond which bound him here!
O, Death! a sadder blow thou ne'er hast given
Than that which brought him to his early bier.
In the young spring-time of his days he passed
From youth's allurements and from scenes of earth,—
As the bright morning may be overcast
Ere many hours shall smile upon its birth.
My Child! my dimming eyes behold thee still,
As when thy little hand in mine was pressed;
As when my pulse with rapture wild would thrill,
To feel thy young heart throb against my breast;
As when that golden curl would sweetly blend
With the bright glory of thy radiant eye,
And such a beauty to thy face did lend
As stilled the thought that thou couldst ever die;
As when thy prattling tongue would greet mine ear
With the glad accent of a dawning love;
As when thy promise made my pathway here
A blessed forecast of the bliss above.

57

I weave a braid,—the gold, the dark, the white,—
They mingle well, these types of human life!
The calm of Age, Youth's hope, the Child's delight,—
The simple cord with eloquence is rife.
Brief is the time dividing old and young—
A step between the cradle and the grave;
Death's shadow o'er the manly oak is flung,
Ere yet its youthful glories cease to wave.