 | Pocahontas, and other poems |  |
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THE BEAUTIFUL CHILD.
Fair child, whose gem of genius burn'd
In beauty's purest gold enshrined,
On whom the eye of strangers turn'd
With wonder and delight combined,
In beauty's purest gold enshrined,
On whom the eye of strangers turn'd
With wonder and delight combined,
Whose tender, tuneful voice doth keep
Fresh echo while long seasons roll,
As music, though the lute-strings sleep,
Still lingereth in the master's soul,
Fresh echo while long seasons roll,
As music, though the lute-strings sleep,
Still lingereth in the master's soul,
We will not say how early fled!
Nor, darkly murmuring, mark thy date,
Though Grief's most bitter tear be shed,
And home's fond temple desolate;
Nor, darkly murmuring, mark thy date,
Though Grief's most bitter tear be shed,
And home's fond temple desolate;
For life is long that fills the round
Which Heaven's own finger brightly traced,
And many a form that age hath crown'd
Must leave that circle unembraced.
Which Heaven's own finger brightly traced,
And many a form that age hath crown'd
Must leave that circle unembraced.
But thine eternal life, how blest!
O let its radiant image be
A watch-light in the parents' breast,
Till joyful they ascend to thee.
O let its radiant image be
A watch-light in the parents' breast,
Till joyful they ascend to thee.
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