A POET’S DAUGHTER.
67
“’Tis youth, ’tis beauty asks; the green
And growing leaves of seventeen
Are round her; and, half hid, half seen,
A violet flower,
Nursed by the virtues she hath been
From childhood’s hour.”
Blind passion’s picture—yet for this
We woo the life-long bridal kiss,
And blend our every hope of bliss
With hers we love;
Unmindful of the serpent’s hiss
In Eden’s grove.
Beauty—the fading rainbow’s pride,
Youth—’twas the charm of her who died
At dawn, and by her coffin’s side
A grandsire stands,
Age-strengthened, like the oak storm-tried
Of mountain-lands.
Youth’s coffin—hush the tale it tells!
Be silent, memory’s funeral bells!
Lone in one heart, her home, it dwells
Untold till death,
And where the grave-mound greenly swells
O’er buried faith.
