THREE years she grew,*-three lovely years,
'Mid health and sickness, smiles and tears.
The new-found world before her sight
Spread forth its treasures, wonder-bright;
Thro' form and features more defined,
More clearly beamed the awakening mind;
And kindred hearts began to feel
A deeper fondness o'er them steal :
-And then it came,-the fatal day,-
And like a dream she past away:
One moment's lapse for aye unwrought
The wondrous web of sense and thought:
One moment's lapse for aye unwove
The soul-felt ties of household love.
*Three years she grew in sun and shower.
And they to whom she was a part
Of daily life, of home, of heart;
Who loved to trace each new revealing
Of quicken'd sense, or wakening feeling;
Hang o'er her sleep, so still, so fair,
Or watch, with mingled joy and care,
As her light form, and fairy feet,
In happy restlessness, would fleet
From sport to sport, from place to place,
With infancy's unconscious grace;
Or woo her kisses, when at rest
She nestled in her mother's breast,
And
gaze, the while, on that fair cheek, And those blue eyes, so soft, so meek, Which even to artless childhood lent
A look more purely innocent;
And that high brow, which seemed to express
Some touch of elder pensiveness:
-Their hopes are void, their cares are vain,
They will not see that face again :
The prayers that rose for her above,
And the fond prophecies of love,
Are mute alike amidst their play
Her little sisters pause, and say,
"Will she not come again ?" her seat
Is vacant; her quick-glancing feet
Are silent on the nursery-floor;
Her joyous laugh is heard no more.
What then remains? An image, shrined
Deep in the heart, by thought refined
To more than earthly innocence,
And angel beauty; a keen sense
Of utter loss, and yearnings vain
For that which may not be again;
Remembrances, like ghosts that walk
In the mind's stillness, holding talk
Of her, and of her winning ways,-
Her baby fondness, the quaint plays
Of her young fancy,-witless wiles,—
Short griefs, and self-renewing smiles;
Of sufferings for her welfare borne,
The watchful night, the toilsome morn;
Of moments soothing to the heart,
Gleams of pure joy, that stole athwart
This daily scene of care and strife,
Like glimpses of a better life:
A mingled web of memory,
Sad, but from darker sadness free:
-And dreams,-for never from the heart,
Where memory dwells, can hope depart,-
Prophetic dreams, obscurely sweet,
Of some glad hour, when they shall meet
The lost one, pure from earthly stain,
From weakness, ignorance and pain
Enfranchised in that heavenly birth,
And loved, as none can love on earth.
TOIL hath rest at set of sun,
But his brother Care hath none.
Kindly Genii of repose,
Soothers of all fleshly woes,
Have ye not a chain to bind
In its home the wandering Mind?
Have ye not a spell to steep
The wakeful Heart in transient sleep?
As ye fold your hushing charm,
Like a clinging mantle warm,
Man's o'erlabour'd frame about,
Lulling sense; O can ye not,
Cannot one of all your number,
Weave a web of spirit-slumber,
Heavenly-sweet, and long, and still,
For weary thought, and weary will?
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