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153
MY DAUGHTERS.
I.
What flowers are meet for me so sweetAs my daughter, eldest born?
A violet crown the glossy brown
Of her locks would best adorn.
When the lines I trace of her gentle face,
I think an angel near;
And griefs that sting my heart take wing
Her lute-like voice to hear.
II.
I will twine a wreath of the mountain heathFor my youngest daughter's brow;
For her well tuned ear delights to hear
The wind in the pine tree's bough.
Six summers bright a golden light
On her clustering curls have shed,
And I feel the glow of long ago,
When I list to her bounding tread.
III.
Her soul has fire that says “aspire!”Let good or ill betide;
And her gleesome call is like the fall
Of streams down a mountain's side.
Long lashes fringe, with a darkening tinge,
Eyes blue as the Alpine flower;
And in her glance burns wild romance,
Boon Nature's fearful dower.
154
IV.
For the brow of my third, that radiant bird,What chaplet shall I weave—
My spirit child, that a moment smiled,
And of guilty earth took leave?
For her fair young brow, angelic now,
Twine amaranthine flowers;
In the land of light, with the blest and bright,
She walks through thornless bowers.
V.
This golden tress of little Bess,Remembrance wildly wakes;
On her infant cheek was the roseate streak
When a bright June morning breaks.
They say she died and, where tears are dried,
That she walks in endless youth;
That her spirit near her father dear
Whispers the words of truth.
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