Little Nell [pp. 289-290]

1856.]
LITTLE NELL.
BY AMIE.
The bell peals out on the Sabbath air,
Calling to worship, to praise and prayer,
But it seems to my sorrow-haunted mood,
Like a dirge wailed out thro' a solitude.
A loved one afar is lying low,
Whiter is growing her brow of snow;
I shrink from the message time may tell,
Anguish or rapture, sweet infant Nell.
Mly heart outleaps the lagging hours, The sands are falling like wither'd flowers.
Cold, gloomy fancies sweep through my brain,
With the moan and chill of the Autumn rain.
Oppressed and weary with wild suspense,
I murmur at doubt's omnipotence;
Yet dread lest some moment break the spell
With death's dark certitude, darling Nell!
What tho' Beauty hath kissed thy brow Beautiful things are perishing now.
Soon Autumn will string his frosts like gems
O'er wither'd branches and flowerless stems;
The leaves of the forest grow sere and brown The maple showers its rubies down The wild flower dies in the woodland dell;
Art thou too, fading-beautiful Nell?
Pearl in a casket of crumbling clay Dewdrop the sunbeam is kissing away Blossom half rent from the swaying stem Jewel unloosed from a diadem Incense just leaving a rose's lips Star half lost in a cloud's eclipse Lark going up with a sweet farewell Art thou to my seeming, oh fairy Nell.
Perchance vain, torturing fears alarm,
Painfully drowning hope's lofty psalm;
Perchance the still Reaper hath passed thee by,
While gathering buds for Eternity.
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