 | [The spell of love, in] The Boston book |  |
245
THE SPELL OF LOVE.
By Mrs. Osgood.
A thoughtless, happy, blooming boy,
With dimpled cheek and laughing eye,
Had stayed his bounding step of joy,
And hushed his voice's melody,
And knelt down by his mother's side,
To breathe his prayer at eventide.
With dimpled cheek and laughing eye,
Had stayed his bounding step of joy,
And hushed his voice's melody,
And knelt down by his mother's side,
To breathe his prayer at eventide.
Her gentle hand was lightly laid
Upon his curls of sunny hair,
And heart and cheek and eye were made
Calmer beneath the pressure there;
Softly the prayer went forth, and blest,
He sank to his sweet dreaming rest.
Upon his curls of sunny hair,
And heart and cheek and eye were made
Calmer beneath the pressure there;
Softly the prayer went forth, and blest,
He sank to his sweet dreaming rest.
Years had gone by:—still wore that brow
The laughing light of childish years,
Yet something on it told that now
Life passed not all undimmed by tears;—
She who had cherished, loved him, died,
And left him without guard or guide.
The laughing light of childish years,
Yet something on it told that now
Life passed not all undimmed by tears;—
She who had cherished, loved him, died,
And left him without guard or guide.
And there were hours when manhood, truth,
All that can light our wayward lot,
All that he had been taught in youth
To honor, might have been forgot;—
But that soft hand amid his hair—
Its thrilling fingers rested there!
All that can light our wayward lot,
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To honor, might have been forgot;—
But that soft hand amid his hair—
Its thrilling fingers rested there!
And there were hours of passion deep,
When the proud heart would rise. Oh! then
Nought could have bid the tempest sleep,
Saving that hallowed touch again;—
Still fancy felt it lightly press—
Still wept beneath the dear caress!
When the proud heart would rise. Oh! then
Nought could have bid the tempest sleep,
Saving that hallowed touch again;—
Still fancy felt it lightly press—
Still wept beneath the dear caress!
And sometimes he would kneel and pray
Amid those deep repentant tears—
And there his mother's hand would play,
Like some sweet dream of earlier years;
Guiding him, with its “spell of love,”
To her own blessed home above!
Amid those deep repentant tears—
And there his mother's hand would play,
Like some sweet dream of earlier years;
Guiding him, with its “spell of love,”
To her own blessed home above!
| [The spell of love, in] The Boston book | |