122
CRUCE AND CORONA.
He bears her through the deep'ning twilight shades.Within the dwelling all is hushed and still;Through all bereavement's presence seems to breathe.He enters silently, and soon to herThe promised mother tells the story sad,The shipwreck on the reef in ocean storm,And how within the cavern they had foundThe sole survivor. To the stranger childThe mother's heart a mother's welcome gives;And lips maternal sing the lullabyThey sang the little one who sleeps in death.This night the little stranger's ringlets darkFloat o'er the pillow where few nights agoThe golden tresses of the lost one lay.
Now morning dawns upon this lovely isle.The sun's ascending beams with beauty crownIts groves, its moss-grown rocks, and happy homes.Beneath a vine-embowered shade, besideThe lovely home Crucè should call her own,Sits he who bore her thither, all absorbedIn deep reflective thought. The entrance-wayThat opens to that bow'r is toward the east.Within the golden light that inward streams,A childish form appears. Her broad fair brow,So white in pureness that a seraph's lipsMight touch with holy kiss its fair expanse,
