 | Forest leaves |  |
THE LOST ONE.
She was a lovely child—upon her face
Lay beauty—with that ever-varying grace
Which charms, and fixes the beholder's gaze;
And you might trace in her clear, loving eye,
Each girlish feeling in its purity,
As in pure water 'neath an azure sky,
You see the bright-wing'd birds that flutter by.
Lay beauty—with that ever-varying grace
Which charms, and fixes the beholder's gaze;
And you might trace in her clear, loving eye,
Each girlish feeling in its purity,
As in pure water 'neath an azure sky,
You see the bright-wing'd birds that flutter by.
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Fine threads of feeling, delicately twin'd,
Compos'd the tissue of her perfect mind,
With broider'd flowers by fancy's hand design'd.
Her spirit was a wind harp, with its flow
Of magic tones, all musically low,
Wak'd by the softest zephyr that can blow,
Blending with all the pure, and sweet below,
Compos'd the tissue of her perfect mind,
With broider'd flowers by fancy's hand design'd.
Her spirit was a wind harp, with its flow
Of magic tones, all musically low,
Wak'd by the softest zephyr that can blow,
Blending with all the pure, and sweet below,
Still stealing through the heart unconsciously,
And moving every chord of melody,
To its own sweetly plaintive witchery.
Her every step was music, wild and free
As summer evening's breezy minstrelsy,
Which walks amongst all sweet things in its glee,
And touches every creature, lightsomely.
And moving every chord of melody,
To its own sweetly plaintive witchery.
Her every step was music, wild and free
As summer evening's breezy minstrelsy,
Which walks amongst all sweet things in its glee,
And touches every creature, lightsomely.
She seem'd a being, not of mortal birth;
She felt no sympathy with things of earth,
Its gold—its honours—or its noisy mirth.
She could not brook its hypocritic art,
Or court applause amid its busy mart;
She seem'd like light, a holy thing apart,
Yet mingling with all joy, in every heart.
She felt no sympathy with things of earth,
Its gold—its honours—or its noisy mirth.
She could not brook its hypocritic art,
Or court applause amid its busy mart;
She seem'd like light, a holy thing apart,
Yet mingling with all joy, in every heart.
And those who met her oft at summer even,
Might deem that to her purity 'twas given
To hold communion with the stars of heaven;
For then she seem'd as of ethereal clay,
All animate with love's divinest ray,
And trembling with one wish to pass away
With the soft radiance of departing day.
Might deem that to her purity 'twas given
To hold communion with the stars of heaven;
For then she seem'd as of ethereal clay,
All animate with love's divinest ray,
And trembling with one wish to pass away
With the soft radiance of departing day.
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For then her pure young spirit caught such gleams,—
Such thrilling pageantry of broken dreams,
Of heaven's own perfect forms, in glory beams.
She knew there was a world of perfect bliss,
Above the cares, and vanities of this,
Where all the soul is fill'd with happiness,
And folds its wings in ever-during peace.
Such thrilling pageantry of broken dreams,
Of heaven's own perfect forms, in glory beams.
She knew there was a world of perfect bliss,
Above the cares, and vanities of this,
Where all the soul is fill'd with happiness,
And folds its wings in ever-during peace.
And sometimes in those visionary hours,
She seem'd so near the angel radiant bow'rs,
She almost felt the perfume of the flowers.
And then a troubled rapture stirr'd her breast—
A sweetly painful yearning to be blest,—
A longing for some blessing unexpress'd—
To fill the heart, which had not found its rest.
She seem'd so near the angel radiant bow'rs,
She almost felt the perfume of the flowers.
And then a troubled rapture stirr'd her breast—
A sweetly painful yearning to be blest,—
A longing for some blessing unexpress'd—
To fill the heart, which had not found its rest.
She lov'd—her heart was fill'd—her shadowy dreams,
Were realiz'd—with all their glory beams,
Their never-fading flowers, and living streams.
She lov'd—Know'st thou how such a one can love?—
She was all tenderness—like the young dove,
Ardent and pure, as seraphim above—
And guiltless of a thought, that hearts can rove.
Were realiz'd—with all their glory beams,
Their never-fading flowers, and living streams.
She lov'd—Know'st thou how such a one can love?—
She was all tenderness—like the young dove,
Ardent and pure, as seraphim above—
And guiltless of a thought, that hearts can rove.
Know'st thou the trembling rapture—when at first
From the full heart the thrilling waters burst,
The stream for which her soul had been athirst?
Know'st thou the sense of sweet ecstatic rest,
With which she nestled to the chosen breast?
Like some wild bird, which, having found her nest,
Folds her bright wings, even for a song too blest.
From the full heart the thrilling waters burst,
The stream for which her soul had been athirst?
Know'st thou the sense of sweet ecstatic rest,
With which she nestled to the chosen breast?
Like some wild bird, which, having found her nest,
Folds her bright wings, even for a song too blest.
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Then thou may'st judge how fearful was her fate,
When all too early—and yet all too late,
She found herself deceiv'd, and desolate.
Oh! WOMAN'S LOVE! To man divinely given,
His purest, sweetest treasure this side heaven—
Oh, God! that from his heart it should be riven,
And naked forth upon the cold world driven.
When all too early—and yet all too late,
She found herself deceiv'd, and desolate.
Oh! WOMAN'S LOVE! To man divinely given,
His purest, sweetest treasure this side heaven—
Oh, God! that from his heart it should be riven,
And naked forth upon the cold world driven.
And she is lost! a craz'd and restless thing,—
A fair bark, shatter'd by the storm-god's wing—
A tempest-broken flower of early spring.
Still shadowy dreams pursue her every where,
But hope's bright form no more is mirror'd there—
But from the ruins of the past, despair
Brings darken'd shreds of all that once was fair.
A fair bark, shatter'd by the storm-god's wing—
A tempest-broken flower of early spring.
Still shadowy dreams pursue her every where,
But hope's bright form no more is mirror'd there—
But from the ruins of the past, despair
Brings darken'd shreds of all that once was fair.
| Forest leaves | |