A glittering idol stood she there,

For many a heart's strong worshipping; Bright gems were on her sunny hair

O’er her white forehead clustering; Oh! shower-like was her sunshine—bright,

And glad her lot as summer's day, And gazing there I asked, if night

Could e'er obscure her fortune's ray?

I pondered on life's rugged path,

And the world's worldly mindedness, And thought how few the dark earth hath

Its rocky journeyings to bless;
I thought, it could not be, its scorn

Could reach one fair and good as she; Thought that no heart could leave hers lorn

Who trusted its fidelity.

But ah! a voice came from the past,

Which told to my unwilling ear
Of many a lot like hers o'ercast,

And as bright flowers sere.
And then I could but hope—but pray,

That her's a cloudless sky might be,



That tempestless might be her way,

Upon life's tossing sea.

I have not seen her since that day,

Nor know how life's swift current ran
With her—but feel, I turned away

A happier and a better man.
I felt that life was not all dark;

That there were sun-rays in my cell;
That 'mid the clouds oft sings the lark;

That in the desert is a well.

I felt, such beauteous ones were given,

To cheer us on our lonely way; Bright forms-bright flowers-the clear blue

heaven Are shining with the pole-star's ray, Around-above us; and whene'er

I waver in the rushing storm, I soothe my spirit's rising care,

By thinking on that angel form.




Oh! thou art young for sorrow, child !

Ah ! far too young to know
Its deepest, darkest bitterness,

Or feel its heaviest blow;
Nor has it stolen from thy cheek

Life's deepest morning flush;
Nor checked to cold and lingering words

Thy voice's brook-like gush !

Yet strangely falls that sable veil

Above thy Parian brow;
And strangely o'er that fragile form

Those mournful vestments flow.
Oh! how thou speakest of our life,

Our sunshine and our night;
Earth cannot nurse one heavenly form

But feels its withering blight!



Though now where'er thy footsteps roam

Thou biddest all rejoice,
Well know I, by thy eye's dark glance,

And by thy deep-toned voice,
That when the warm-warm love was crushed

Of childhood's sunny years, Death never gazed on deeper grief,

Or bitterer flood of tears.

But like the flower, that bends beneath

The storm-wind's rushing blast,
Thy spirit rose with light rebound,

The first long struggle past.
And it was well ;—could childhood brook

That stern grief's slow decay,
That eateth, sharp as serpent's tooth,

Man's stubborn heart away!

What strange, strange thoughts were in thy

Upon that woful day,
When bending o'er the clay-cold corpse,

Thou shuddering turned away!
Death was a strange thing to thee, child !

Thou hadst not come to know, How surely flies the leaping shaft

From his unerring bow.

Ah! it is sad to think that thou,

E’er twenty years are gone,
Shalt don black garments many a time,

And many a time shalt mourn!
That brow shall furrowed be with care,

Those locks with thorns be crowned,
And dead men be familiar things,

And "death” a household sound.

While thine, drink in life's sweetest draught,

Pluck every flower that decks its May! Prolong with dance, and laugh, and song,

The coming of a darker day!
When friends grow few, and passion strong,

The hey-day of existence sped,
Thy mourning garment tells me, that

Thou then shalt mourn the dead.

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