THE URN OF THE HEART.
157
That the cool dews of life's young morning bathed,
That its soft gales fanned with their gentle wings,
And that its genial sunbeams warmed to life,
And fairy beauty 'mid the melodies
Of founts and singing birds, lie hoarded there,
Dead, dead, for ever dead! but, oh, as bright
And beautiful to me, as when they beamed
With Nature's radiant jewelry of dew.
And they have more than mortal sweetness now,
For the dear breath of loved ones, loved and lost,
Is mingling with their holy perfume.
That its soft gales fanned with their gentle wings,
And that its genial sunbeams warmed to life,
And fairy beauty 'mid the melodies
Of founts and singing birds, lie hoarded there,
Dead, dead, for ever dead! but, oh, as bright
And beautiful to me, as when they beamed
With Nature's radiant jewelry of dew.
And they have more than mortal sweetness now,
For the dear breath of loved ones, loved and lost,
Is mingling with their holy perfume.
A very miser, day and night I hide
The hoarded riches of my dear heart-urn.
Oft at the midnight's calm and silent hour,
When not a tone of living nature seems
To rise from all the lone and sleeping earth,
I lift the lid softly and noiselessly,
Lest some dark, wandering spirit of the air
Perchance should catch with his quick ear the sound,
The hoarded riches of my dear heart-urn.
Oft at the midnight's calm and silent hour,
When not a tone of living nature seems
To rise from all the lone and sleeping earth,
I lift the lid softly and noiselessly,
Lest some dark, wandering spirit of the air
Perchance should catch with his quick ear the sound,
