University of Virginia Library

Upon a summer's morn, a southern mother
Sat at the curtain'd window of an inn.
She rested from long travel, and with hand
Upon her cheek in tranquil happiness,
Look'd where the busy travellers went and came
And, like the shadows of the swallows flying
Over the bosom of unruffled water,
Pass'd from her thoughts all objects, leaving there,
As in the water's breast, a mirror'd heaven —
For, in the porch beneath her, to and fro,
A nurse walk'd singing with her babe in arms
And many a passer-by look'd on the child
And praised its wondrous beauty, but still on
The old nurse troll'd her lullaby, and still,
Blest through her depths of soul by light there shining.
The mother in her reverie mused on.
But lo! another traveller alighted!
And now, no more indifferent or calm,
The mother's breath comes quick, and with the blood
Warm in her cheek and brow, she murmurs low
“Now, God be praised! I am no more alone
In knowing I've an angel for my child, —
Chance he to look on't only!” With a smile —
The tribute of a beauty-loving heart
To things from God new-moulded — would have passed
The poet, as the infant caught his eye;
But suddenly he turn'd, and, with his hand
Upon the nurse's arm, he stay'd her steps,
And gazed upon her burthen. 'Twas a child
In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed,
Something to waken wonder. Never sky
In noontide depth, or softly-breaking dawn —
Never the dew in new-born violet's cup,
Lay so entranced in purity! Not calm,
With the mere hush of infancy at rest,
The ample forehead, but serene with thought;
And by the rapt expression of the lips,
They seem'd scarce still from a cherubic hymn,
And over all its countenance there breath'd
Benignity, majestic as we dream
Angels wear ever, before God. With gaze
Earnest and mournful, and his eyelids warm
With tears kept back, the poet kiss'd the child;
And chasten'd at his heart, as having pass'd
Close to an angel, went upon his way.
Soon after, to the broken choir in heaven
This cherub was recalled, and now the mother
Bethought her, in her anguish, of the bard —
(Herself a far-off stranger, but his heart
Familiar to the world,) — and wrote to tell him,
The angel he had recognized that morn,
Had fled to bliss again. The poet well

Remember'd that child's ministry to him;
And of the only fountain that he knew
For healing, he sought comfort for the mother.
And thus he wrote: —
Mourn not for the child from thy tenderness riven,
Ere stain on its purity fell!
To thy questioning heart, lo! an answer from heaven:
“Is it well with the child?” “It is well!”