 | English Roses |  |
MY LOST CHILD.
I had a child, a daughter sweet
As sunshine, milk and roses;
And ever-new shy poses,
Made music of her tinkling feet.
She wove her girdling golden charms
About my weary bosom,
Which seemed to bud and blossom,
Beneath the touch of baby arms.
And many a midnight black was light
With her young face's story,
And many a day was glory
Read in her features radiant sight.
As sunshine, milk and roses;
And ever-new shy poses,
Made music of her tinkling feet.
She wove her girdling golden charms
About my weary bosom,
Which seemed to bud and blossom,
Beneath the touch of baby arms.
And many a midnight black was light
With her young face's story,
And many a day was glory
Read in her features radiant sight.
But now, alas, the child has fled,
Who was so bright and moving
And always fondly proving
Fresh little arts of hand or head.
She comes no longer to my door,
With gentle foolish questions
Or innocent suggestions,
Nor patters yet about the floor.
Nor is the carpet on the stair
Turned into Jacob's ladder,
And all the world is sadder
Without her flashing presence fair.
Who was so bright and moving
And always fondly proving
Fresh little arts of hand or head.
She comes no longer to my door,
With gentle foolish questions
Or innocent suggestions,
Nor patters yet about the floor.
Nor is the carpet on the stair
Turned into Jacob's ladder,
And all the world is sadder
Without her flashing presence fair.
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The form abides though strangely dimmed,
But she has quite departed—
The true and tender-hearted,
With that pure forehead halo-rimmed.
It answers to no word of mine
Or fatherly endearance,
Despite the gay appearance—
The fingers have forgot to twine.
The locks may almost be the same,
The white rose-blush complexion;
But where the old reflexion,
In gray eyes like a sunshine flame?
But she has quite departed—
The true and tender-hearted,
With that pure forehead halo-rimmed.
It answers to no word of mine
Or fatherly endearance,
Despite the gay appearance—
The fingers have forgot to twine.
The locks may almost be the same,
The white rose-blush complexion;
But where the old reflexion,
In gray eyes like a sunshine flame?
I fancy in that comely shape
Some evil imp has entered,
Most ugly and self-centered,
And let the pretty soul escape.
For if some beauties linger yet
And grace the goodly building,
They seem more like the gilding
Upon a life whose sun has set.
But, in the bitter times to be,
I trust that young affection
In richer resurrection,
Will at the last return to me.
Some evil imp has entered,
Most ugly and self-centered,
And let the pretty soul escape.
For if some beauties linger yet
And grace the goodly building,
They seem more like the gilding
Upon a life whose sun has set.
But, in the bitter times to be,
I trust that young affection
In richer resurrection,
Will at the last return to me.
I cannot tell you, where or when
My child was darkly banished
And like a vision vanished,
Out of the kind familiar ken.
One moment tightly in my grasp
I held her warm and willing,
All heart and fluff and frilling—
The next, she mocked my wildest clasp.
O yes, I compass with my hands
The semblance of my dearest,
As close as is the nearest—
But it is grave or swaddling bands.
My child was darkly banished
And like a vision vanished,
Out of the kind familiar ken.
One moment tightly in my grasp
I held her warm and willing,
All heart and fluff and frilling—
The next, she mocked my wildest clasp.
O yes, I compass with my hands
The semblance of my dearest,
As close as is the nearest—
But it is grave or swaddling bands.
Perhaps the daughter, to my cares
And burden of sore grieving
Sent with a soft relieving,
Came as an angel unawares.
She found my narrow home too small
For upward-pointed pinions,
And to her own dominions
Flew when she heard her sisters call.
My heart at night does often thrill,
Believing she is present—
As ever pure and pleasant—
In loving dreams I keep her still.
And burden of sore grieving
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Came as an angel unawares.
She found my narrow home too small
For upward-pointed pinions,
And to her own dominions
Flew when she heard her sisters call.
My heart at night does often thrill,
Believing she is present—
As ever pure and pleasant—
In loving dreams I keep her still.
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