 | My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays |  |
APOSTROPHE,
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED DAGHTER CHARLOTTE.
FRAGMENT.
That this melancholy Apostrophe, and in addition to this— the Stanzas in page 67—was and were correctly just, and free from the exaggeration of maternal enthusiasm, the Author appeals to the recollections of hundreds—perhaps thousands —of living individuals, who have seen Charlotte Morton in the dawn of fifteen, and these will surely admit, that a Beauty more brilliant—a Temper more celestial—and a Mind more enriched by Talents and by Virtues, had never met observation, nor inspired affection.
A complexion of the most delicate bloom, large dark eyes of enchanting blue, long ringlets of flaxen gold, in which no tint of the auburn nor approach to the red were seen, a smile seemingly of itself perfect beauty—an ivory neck and shoulders, in symmetry a model for sculpture—sweetness, softness, elegance—a musician, a painter, a poet.
This beautiful and highly gifted being was married early, and perished in the morning of her days, the victim of cares, and of climate—leaving her affectionate Mother the sole consolation of remembering that the two last happy years of her life were passed under the parental roof, until within three months of her decease, when at the request of her absent husband she voluntarily followed his fortunes, and became the affectionate victim of conjugal duty.
As the unsinning angels were!
No more the heaven that filled thine eyes,
Shall o'er a mother's sorrows rise,
Like the blue morning's soften'd ray,
To charm the clouds of grief away.
That mother lived—and lives—to see
The gift of God recall'd in thee:
Despair's deep voice appall'd to hear,
Slow whisp'ring that thou art not near.
Despair's chill glance on anguish borne,
To feel and know thy life is gone.
On deeds of filial love like thine;
A beauty lovelier than thine own:
Genius was thine, and taste refined,
And gentle temper's feeling mind;
Temper, whose fine unclouded mien
Shone constant, gracious, kind, serene.
Ah! what does earth's dim orb supply,
Like heavenly temper's angel eye!
Or the discordant world afford
Of music, like her answering word!
Thou wert an earthly deity!
Hope round thine infant pillow played,
Hope in thine early grave is laid;
A mother's hope, and lost despair,
Has led his haunting spectres there.
[OMITTED]
| My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays | |