VI.

And so thou art, Eternal Nature! Yes, bride of Heaven, so thou art; Thou, wholly lovest every creature, Giving to each no stinted part, But filling every peaceful heart.

TO E. W. G.

"Dear Child! dear happy Girl! if thou appear Heedless--untouched with awe or serious thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not." --_Wordsworth._

As through a strip of sunny light A white dove flashes swiftly on, So suddenly before my sight Thou gleamed'st a moment and wert gone; And yet I long shall bear in mind The pleasant thoughts thou left'st behind.

Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes, And happy with thine open smile, And, as I write, sweet memories Come thronging round me all the while; Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes-- And gentle feelings long forgot Looked up and oped their eyes, Like violets when they see a spot Of summer in the skies.

Around thy playful lips did glitter Heat-lightnings of a girlish scorn; Harmless they were, for nothing bitter In thy dear heart was ever born-- That merry heart that could not lie Within its warm nest quietly, But ever from each full, dark eye Was looking kindly night and morn.

There was an archness in thine eyes, Born of the gentlest mockeries, And thy light laughter rang as clear As water-drops I loved to hear In days of boyhood, as they fell Tinkling far down the dim, still well; And with its sound come back once more The feelings of my early years, And half aloud I murmured o'er-- "Sure I have heard that sound before, It is so pleasant in mine ears."

Whenever thou didst look on me I thought of merry birds, And something of spring's melody Came to me in thy words; Thy thoughts did dance and bound along Like happy children in their play, Whose hearts run over into song For gladness of the summer's day; And mine grew dizzy with the sight, Still feeling lighter and more light, Till, joining hands, they whirled away, As blithe and merrily as they.

I bound a larch-twig round with flowers, Which thou didst twine among thy hair, And gladsome were the few, short hours When I was with thee there; So now that thou art far away, Safe-nestled in thy warmer clime, In memory of a happier day I twine this simple wreath of rhyme.

Dost mind how she, whom thou dost love More than in light words may be said, A coronal of amaranth wove About thy duly-sobered head, Which kept itself a moment still That she might have her gentle will? Thy childlike grace and purity O keep forevermore, And as thou art, still strive to be, That on the farther shore Of Time's dark waters ye may meet, And she may twine around thy brow A wreath of those bright flowers that grow Where blessèd angels set their feet!

ISABEL.

As the leaf upon the tree, Fluttering, gleaming constantly, Such a lightsome thing was she, My gay and gentle Isabel! Her heart was fed with love-springs sweet, And in her face you'd see it beat To hear the sound of welcome feet-- And were not mine so, Isabel?

She knew it not, but she was fair, And like a moonbeam was her hair, That falls where flowing ripples are In summer evenings, Isabel! Her heart and tongue were scarce apart, Unwittingly her lips would part, And love came gushing from her heart, The woman's heart of Isabel.

So pure her flesh-garb, and like dew, That in her features glimmered through Each working of her spirit true, In wondrous beauty, Isabel! A sunbeam struggling through thick leaves, A reaper's song mid yellow sheaves, Less gladsome were;--my spirit grieves To think of thee, mild Isabel!

I know not when I loved thee first; Not loving, I had been accurst, Yet, having loved, my heart will burst, Longing for thee, dear Isabel! With silent tears my cheeks are wet, I would be calm, I would forget, But thy blue eyes gaze on me yet, When stars have risen, Isabel.

The winds mourn for thee, Isabel, The flowers expect thee in the dell, Thy gentle spirit loved them well; And I for thy sake, Isabel! The sunsets seem less lovely now Than when, leaf checkered, on thy brow They fell as lovingly as thou Lingered'st till moon-rise, Isabel!

At dead of night I seem to see Thy fair, pale features constantly Upturned in silent prayer for me, O'er moveless clasped hands, Isabel! I call thee, thou dost not reply; The stars gleam coldly on thine eye, As like a dream thou flittest by, And leav'st me weeping, Isabel!

MUSIC.