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THE RINGLET.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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92

THE RINGLET.

The statesman's cabinet was thickly strewn
With parchment scrolls, Ambition's implements:
The hum of passers by, the low, quick note
Of the rich time-piece, the fantastic play
Of chequered light athwart the dusky room,
The sweet aroma and the pensive strain
From his wife's terrace stealing winningly—
Were all unheeded by the man of cares.
You might have known the failure of some aim,
Of more than common import, in the plan
Too intricately wove, of his deep schemes:
For fixed in troubled musings was his gaze,
As restlessly he scanned each lettered roll,
Till thrusting back, in very petulance,
A half-read packet on his cabinet,
The spring-lock of a secret drawer was touched,
And the forgotten nook where, in his youth,
He had been wont to store the treasures small
Of every doting hope, sprang forth unbid;
What mystic token stays his anxious gaze?

93

And whence that glowing flush?—that mournful smile?
Ay, and the tear in that world-tutored eye?
List, list!—he speaks—mark well his thoughtful words;
They may instruct thee,—for men call him great:
“Ringlet of golden hair!
How thou dost move my very manhood now!
Stirring in radiance, there,
As once thou didst above this care-worn brow.
“Methinks it cannot be
That thou art mine; yet, gazing, I do feel
The spell of infancy,
Like distant music, through my bosom steal.
“Sweet relic of that hour!
She who so fondly decked thee, day by day,
As some love-cherished flower,
From the green earth, for aye, has passed away!
“O! what unconscious bliss
Filled this lone breast when thou wert floating free,
Wooing the breeze's kiss!
Symbol of early joy, I welcome thee!

94

“Would that the sunny hue
That gilds thy silken threads so brightly o'er,—
Would that life's morning dew
Might bathe my restless heart forevermore!
“Unto the spirit-land
Could I, in being's brightness, have been borne,—
Had her fond, trembling hand
From my cold brow this golden ringlet shorn;
“Not, then, should I thus gaze,
And sigh that time has weakened and made dim
The charm which thou dost raise,—
Bright are the tresses of the cherubim!
“Type of life's tranquil spring!
Thy voice is rich and eloquently mild,
The Teacher's echoing:
“‘Become thou now e'en as a little child.’”