TO V. B., ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY.
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TO V. B., ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY.
Again thy mystic clock of life doth strike,And in the chambers of my heart the fewAnd sweet vibrations numbering thy years,Linger like music.—From the sea of timeAnother wave rolls to thy feet and breaks.And now, while Summer with averted eyesLeaves the green earth to wither and grow coldIn the approaching Autumn's blighting breath,Life's angel drops upon thy stainless browThe crown of perfect womanhood.
As oneWho stands upon a gentle eminence,And, looking backward, sees with saddened heartThe paths which never may be trod againFade in the distance,—so thou standest now.The fields in which thy childish footsteps strayedAre bright in memory's retrospective eye:The well-remembered voices, whose sweet tonesMade up the morning music of thy life,Thrill thee with melody; forgotten scenesGrow bright again; and all the past grows bright,And brighter for the thought that it is past!
But the veiled future hath yet fairer scenesThan aught the past hath known, for one like thee,Whose spirit moves by that divinest lawWhich shapes the actions of a perfect life:And brighter, hour by hour, thy life shall grow,Till merged in that completion which the graveHides from our bounded vision. Therefore I,To whom thy happiness is more than life,With no regretful feeling greet this day;Knowing that every year will shed on theeA choicer blessing than the past hath known,And bring thee nearer Heaven.
