  Art thou a thing of mortal birth, Whose happy home is on our earth? Does human blood with life embue Those wandering veins of heavenly blue, That stray along thy forehead fair, Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair? Oh! can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doom'd to death; Those features to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent; Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, The phantom of a blessed dream? I feel it, at my beating heart, Those tremors both of soul and sense Awoke by infant innocence! Though dear the forms by fancy wove, We love them with a transient love; Thoughts from the living world intrude Even on her deepest solitude: But, lovely child! thy magic stole At once into my inmost soul, With feelings as thy beauty fair, And left no other vision there. To me thy parents are unknown; Glad would they be their child to own! And well they must have loved before, If since thy birth they loved not more. Thou art a branch of noble stem, And, seeing thee, I figure them. What many a childless one would give, If thou in their still home wouldst live! Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine!" In time thou would'st become the same As their own child,—all but the name! How happy must thy parents be Who daily live in sight of thee! Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak, And feel all natural griefs beguiled By thee, their fond, their duteous child. What joy must in their souls have stirr'd When thy first broken words were heard, Words, that, inspired by Heaven, express'd The transports dancing in thy breast! As for thy smile!—thy lip, cheek, brow, Even while I gaze, are kindling now. I called thee duteous: am I wrong? No! truth, I feel, is in my song: To God, to Nature, and to Love! To God!—for thou a harmless child Hast kept his temple undefiled: To Nature!—for thy tears and sighs Obey alone her mysteries: To Love!—for fiends of hate might see Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee! What wonder then, though in thy dreams Thy face with mystic meaning beams! Oh! that my spirit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of extacy! That light of dreaming soul appears To play from thoughts above thy years. Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring To Heaven, and Heaven's God adoring! And who can tell what visions high May bless an infant's sleeping eye? To reign on than an infant's mind, Ere sin destroy, or error dim, The glory of the Seraphim? But now thy changing smiles express Intelligible happiness. I feel my soul thy soul partake. What grief! if thou should'st now awake! With infants happy as thyself I see thee bound, a playful elf: I see thou art a darling child Among thy playmates, bold and wild. They love thee well; thou art the queen Of all their sports, in bower or green; And if thou livest to woman's height, In thee will friendship, love delight. And live thou surely must; thy life Is far too spiritual for the strife Find heart to prey on smiles like these. Oh! thou wilt be an angel bright! To those thou lovest, a saving light! The staff of age, the help sublime Of erring youth, and stubborn prime; And when thou goest to Heaven again, Thy vanishing be like the strain Of airy harp, so soft the tone The ear scarce knows when it is gone! Thrice blessed he! whose stars design His spirit pure to lean on thine; And watchful share, for days and years, Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears! For good and guiltless as thou art, Some transient griefs will touch thy heart, Griefs that along thy alter'd face Will breathe a more subduing grace, Than ev'n those looks of joy that lie On the soft cheek of infancy. That guilt might cleanse, or sooth despair. Oh! vision fair! that I could be Again, as young, as pure as thee! Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form May view, but cannot brave the storm; Years can bedim the gorgeous dies That paint the bird of paradise, And years, so fate hath order'd, roll Clouds o'er the summer of the soul. Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace, Such as the gladness of thy face, O sinless babe! by God are given To charm the wanderer back to Heaven. No common impulse hath me led To this green spot, thy quiet bed, Where, by mere gladness overcome, In sleep thou dreamest of thy home. A wondrous beauty drew me on, Such beauty as the spirit sees |
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