 | The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry |  |
219
LOUISA.
She was my idol. Night and day, to scan
The fine expansion of her form, and mark
The unfolding mind, like vernal rose-bud, start
To sudden beauty, was my chief delight.
The fine expansion of her form, and mark
The unfolding mind, like vernal rose-bud, start
To sudden beauty, was my chief delight.
To find her fairy footsteps following mine,
Her hand upon my garments, or her lip
Long seal'd to mine, and in the watch of night
The quiet breath of innocence to feel
Soft on my cheek, was such a full content
Of happiness, as none but mothers know.
Her hand upon my garments, or her lip
Long seal'd to mine, and in the watch of night
The quiet breath of innocence to feel
Soft on my cheek, was such a full content
Of happiness, as none but mothers know.
Her voice was like some tiny harp, that yields
To the slight-finger'd breeze, and as it held
Gay converse with her doll, or gently sooth'd
The moaning kitten, or with patient care
Conn'd o'er the alphabet—but most of all,
Its tender cadence in her evening prayer,
Thrill'd on the ear like some ethereal tone
Heard in sweet dreams.
To the slight-finger'd breeze, and as it held
Gay converse with her doll, or gently sooth'd
The moaning kitten, or with patient care
Conn'd o'er the alphabet—but most of all,
Its tender cadence in her evening prayer,
Thrill'd on the ear like some ethereal tone
Heard in sweet dreams.
But now alone I sit,
Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears
Her little robes, that once with curious pride
I wrought, as though there were a need to deck
A form that God had made so beautiful.
Sometimes I start, fancying her empty crib
Gives forth a restless sound, and softly say,
“Hush, hush, Louisa, dearest!”—then I weep.
As if it were a sin to speak to one
Whose home is with the angels.
Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears
Her little robes, that once with curious pride
I wrought, as though there were a need to deck
A form that God had made so beautiful.
Sometimes I start, fancying her empty crib
Gives forth a restless sound, and softly say,
“Hush, hush, Louisa, dearest!”—then I weep.
220
Whose home is with the angels.
Gone to God!
And yet I wish I had not seen the pang
That wrung her features, nor the ghastly white
Settling around her lips. I would that Heaven
Had taken its own, like some transplanted flower
Blooming in all its freshness.
And yet I wish I had not seen the pang
That wrung her features, nor the ghastly white
Settling around her lips. I would that Heaven
Had taken its own, like some transplanted flower
Blooming in all its freshness.
Gone to God!
Be still, my heart! what could a mother's prayer
In all the wildest ecstasy of hope,
Ask for its darling, like the bliss of heaven?
Be still, my heart! what could a mother's prayer
In all the wildest ecstasy of hope,
Ask for its darling, like the bliss of heaven?
| The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry | |