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TO A PICTURE BY ELLIOTT.
TO A PICTURE BY ELLIOTT.
These curling, golden locks; the fair, soft cheek; The full, ripe mouth, and the clear hazel eyes—So full of loving trustfulness, so meek, Beaming with deep and eloquent repliesWhich the tongue could not utter—ah! how these Bring back to the worn heart sweet childhood's daysWhen nothing ruder than the summer breezeLifted the leaves from the green, sunlit trees, Arching the bower of youth!—My fancy strays, As on this semblance of thy face I gaze,Beautiful child l to those green lanes once more Where now thou rovest; and sweet sounds and sights, Vague recollections of past, dear delights,Like fragments of a wreck come floating o'er The dreary waves, the desolate waste of sea, That lies, young voyager, 'twixt thee and me.
Yet is there sadness in those large, calm eyes, A patient sorrow, lovelier than joy;A mellow, hazy light, as if the sighs Breathed by the mother o'er her sleeping boyThrough the long watches of the silent night, Still lingered round their lids. Alas l fair child,That sorrow's shade should make thee seem more bright;That thou should'st be more lovely from the blight On thy young heart, so pure and undefiled! Elliot, thy magic pencil hath beguiledMy soul away from earth and earthly things; And sure thy spirit, when it wrought this face So full of all imaginable grace,Was wafted backward on etherial wings To those far days when a dear mother's kiss Printed upon thy check its seal of bliss.
