If thus a stranger thinks, who knew
Him but an infant--if he grew
With all the promise that appear'd
So brightly then, still more endear'd--
If, as the Honey with the Bee,
Affection dwells with poesy:
If that Affection is comprest,
And hoarded in a Father's breast,
Whose very soul doth blessings shed
Upon a grateful darling's head;
While every look is treasur'd there,
Till Thought itself becomes a prayer,
And Hopes hang on him full and gay.
"As blossoms on a bough in May"[1]--
Shall any venture to intrude
On thee? Oh! not with footstep rude,
But with a timorous zeal I come,
Just hang this wreath upon his tomb--
Record fond wishes sadly o'er,
To see my little favourite more!
* * * * *
[Footnote 1:
As many hopes hang on his noble head
As blossoms on a bough in May; and sweet ones!
--_Beaumont and Fletcher._]
XXV.
Fear has to do with sacred things,
And more than all from Pity springs.
Two school-girls once--the time is past,
But ever will the memory last--
This moral to my fancy drew,
In colours brilliant, deep, and true.
Mute, blooming, one all-wondering stands,
The elder kisses oft her hands,
Bends o'er with fainting, fond caress,
And languishes in strong distress.
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