ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CHILD.
"It is not the will of our Father which is in heaven that one of these little ones should perish."
THE day is beautiful, and nature springs
To life and light again,-where art thou gone,
In thy young bloom, my own, my lovely one?
Nor sun, nor balmy air thy image brings
To bless my loving eyes. The violet flings
Its rath perfume around, sweet warblers own
Their joy in varied song; yet sad, alone,
Can I rejoice, when all surrounding things
Tell of thy opening beauty, shrouded now
In the cold precincts of the silent tomb?
I did not think to weep thy early doom,
My best beloved! yet would I meekly bow
To His decree, who, in the words of love,
"She will not perish," whispers from above.
THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on- -he would not go,
Without his father's word;
That father faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud, "Say, father, say
If yet my task is done?".
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
If I may yet begone!"—
And but the burning shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;
And look'd from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea ;-
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part!
But the noblest thing that perish'd there
Was that young faithful heart.
THEY say thou art not fair to others' eyes,
Thou who dost seem so beautiful in mine!
The stranger coldly passes thee, nor asks
What name, what home, what parentage are thine;
But carelessly, as though it were by chance,
Bestows on thee an unadmiring glance.
Art thou not beautiful?-to me it seems
As though the blue veins in thy temples fair,
The crimson in thy full and innocent lips,
The light that falls upon thy shining hair,
The varying colour in thy rounded cheek,
Must all of nature's endless beauty speak!
The very pillow which thy head hath prest
Through the past night, a picture brings to me
Of rest so holy, calm, and exquisite,
That sweet tears rise at thought of it and thee;
And I repeat, beneath the morning's light,
The mother's lingering gaze, and long good night.'
Yea even thy shadow, as it slanting falls,
(When we two roam beneath the setting sun,)
Seems, as it glides along the path I tread,
A something bright and fair to gaze upon :
I press thy little eager hand the while,
And do not even turn to see thee smile!
Art thou not beautiful?—I hear thy voice,
Its musical shouts of childhood's sudden mirth,
And echo back thy laughter, as thy feet
Come gladly bounding o'er the damp spring earth.
Yet no gaze follows thee but mine ;—I fear
Love hath bewitched mine eyes, my only dear.
Beauty is that which dazzles-that which strikes-
That which doth paralyze the gazer's tongue,
Till he hath found some rapturous word of praise
To bear his proud and swelling thoughts along :
Sunbeams are beautiful, and gilded halls,
Wide terraces, and showery waterfalls.
Yet there are things which through the gazing
Reach the full soul, and thrill it into love,
Unworthy of those rapturous words of praise,
Yet prized, perchance, the brightest things above;
A nook that was our childhood's resting-place,
A smile upon some dear familiar face.
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