 | Rhymes of travel, ballads and poems |  |
125
“LITTLE PAUL.”
Through the curtains poured the sunlight
With a sudden gush of joy,
Where, upon his bed of weakness,
Lay the dying little boy.
On the rising airs of Evening
Balmy sounds of Summer came,
And a Voice amid their music
Seemed to call him by his name:
And the golden waves were dancing
On the flooded chamber-wall—
On the sunny hair of Florence
And the brow of little Paul!
With a sudden gush of joy,
Where, upon his bed of weakness,
Lay the dying little boy.
On the rising airs of Evening
Balmy sounds of Summer came,
And a Voice amid their music
Seemed to call him by his name:
And the golden waves were dancing
On the flooded chamber-wall—
On the sunny hair of Florence
And the brow of little Paul!
As the sunset's tide, receding,
Ebbed again into the sky,
Passed the faint hue from his features
And the lustre from his eye;
As if up the rosy surges
Of that shining river's flow,
Went his spirit to the Angel
Who had claimed it long ago!
Fonder still, and full of yearning,
Seemed to come her gentle call,
And the throb of life grew fainter
In the heart of little Paul!
Ebbed again into the sky,
Passed the faint hue from his features
And the lustre from his eye;
As if up the rosy surges
Of that shining river's flow,
126
Who had claimed it long ago!
Fonder still, and full of yearning,
Seemed to come her gentle call,
And the throb of life grew fainter
In the heart of little Paul!
But the fond arms of a sister
Like a link around him lay,
Chaining back his fluttering spirit
To the love which was its stay;
And his own weak arms were folded
In a clinging, dear embrace,
Till his cheek and dewy forehead
Rested gently on her face.
Slowly sank his weary eyelids;
One faint breathing—that was all,
And no more the kiss of Florence
Thrilled the lips of little Paul!
Like a link around him lay,
Chaining back his fluttering spirit
To the love which was its stay;
And his own weak arms were folded
In a clinging, dear embrace,
Till his cheek and dewy forehead
Rested gently on her face.
Slowly sank his weary eyelids;
One faint breathing—that was all,
And no more the kiss of Florence
Thrilled the lips of little Paul!
| Rhymes of travel, ballads and poems | |