The Child Angel [pp. 416]

THE LADIES' REPOSIToRr.
ROSE LEAVES.
THESE rose leaves from his grave you folded in
With your last note to me, who sit afar,
Too far, alas! for my own hands to win
The sweet, wild things that spring up, unaware
How even their careless beauty seems a sin,
Since, blooming thus, they hide a face so fair.
Dry rose leaves! Faded like the Summer day,
Wherein we two went wandering-he and IThe shattered sunlight all about us lay,
Fallen through rifted branches cool and high;
Hand clasped in hand, we climbed the sloping way,
And paused within the graveyard with a sigh.
Upon the stone a dear-loved name we read,
A name he prattled once with good-night kiss;
"He walked with God, and he was not," it said,
"God took him." Toward the pearly gates of
bliss,
My darling raised his eyes and reverent head My boy looks up sometimes with eyes like his.
Decked for a holiday the valley spread,
Her broidered meadows green beneath our feet,
Shot over by the Nashua's silver thread,
A thrill with winged perfumes soft and fleet;
The very woods were dumb, as loth to shed
A needless darkness over day so sweet.
The far, free hills stood sentinels enrolled
To guard the valley with their azure lives;
Wachuset, farthest, rose up clear and bold,
And heard the breath of God among his pines;
My darling did not look at vale or wold,
Or stay his vision on the hill's confines.
I think that God has let his sky for some
Grow crystal-clear to show them what they would:
For something from the upper glory seemed to come
And touch his brow with radiance where he stood,
As one whose soul had sense of rest and home,
And sighed for tabernacles. "It is good."
Ah well! I may not linger. Summer passed,
And Autumn with its harvest wealth and song.
I watched beside him when the snows fell fast,
And ice-locked streams bewailed their dungeon
strong.
"Will not the grass grow green," he said, "at last?
The Spring is long in coming, 0, how long!"
It came at last. The first arbutus brought
Sweet spices fqr his burial-that was all.
The young buds nestled close, as if they sought
To lend some life-flush to the bier and pall;
I knew that day how blind had been my thought,
That soul like his could wear an earthly thrall.
I hold my leaves, and stretch my hands, and cry
That God will take me where my heart has gone;
A still voice whispers, "Weep not! It is I.
I bade thy blossoms wither, one by one,
But set their roots where, in my meadows high,
No heat shall light on them, nor scorching sun!"
ENDYMION.
YOUTH of celestial beauty, on Caria's mountain sleep ing,
What form is bending, weeping o'er thy eternal rest?
What love is wildly pouring, while wondering and
adoring,
The wealth of all her passion on thy unconscious
breast?
Lo, o'er Mount Latmus slowly the X2gean mists are
sailing,
The winds are weirdly wailing'mong Grecian isles
afarWhile shining soft above thee, so fair to those who
love thee,
Is yon young moon, Selene, and her companion star.
They watch the wan clouds fading far o'er the placid
ocean,
The low winds set in motion the oft complaining
pine;
Selene turns and kisses her star to silver blisses.
And sends her to the bosom of the blue and mur muring brine.
O'er Mediterranean billows a calm light lieth whitely,
The dim sea sendeth lightly its shoreward wavelets
now;
A murmur of low pleasure floats thro' the isles of
azure Endymion dreams of kisses upon his marble brow.
He wakes not-o'er his slumber hangs, deep the spell
unbroken,
It is the mystic token of love's all-conquering
power;
The maiden moon adoring hangs over him, imploring
The sky and sea for silence in that enchanted hour.
Those dark eyes never open-on Caria's lonely
mountain
Whose feet bathe in the fountain of the ever mur muring sea Endyinion sleeps-in. gladness that the moonlight's
silver sadness
Enchains his mortal beauty to immortality.
THE CHILD ANGEL.
LITTLE tongues that chatter, chatter Little feet that patter, patter
With a ceaseless motion all the day Little eyes that softly lighten Little cheeks that flush and brighten Little voices singing at their play.
In my memory awaken
Thoughts of one who has been taken Of a little heart that beats no more Of a little voice that's ringing,
'Mid the angels sweetly singing
Songs of gladness on a distant shore!
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