IN MEMORY OF MRS. O'BRIEN.
89
Kissing the thousand wild-flowers into bloom
And fairy life; upon the rosy gale
The wild-bird's song is floating; a bright robe
Is o'er the wooded hills; and from the soft,
Green bosom of the earth, the young buds bursts
As springs the soul immortal from the tomb
Of darkness and of shadow; but the flowers
Look sad, a hue of sorrow seems to dim
Their beauty's glow, as if they missed her sweet
And gentle ministry, and wept bright tears
Of dew for their dear sister-spirit dead;
The wild-bird's music seems a wail of grief
Breathed for the loved and lost; the blessed beam
Has lost its smile, as if it sought in vain
For her fair angel-brow, on which to shed
Its answering lustre.
And fairy life; upon the rosy gale
The wild-bird's song is floating; a bright robe
Is o'er the wooded hills; and from the soft,
Green bosom of the earth, the young buds bursts
As springs the soul immortal from the tomb
Of darkness and of shadow; but the flowers
Look sad, a hue of sorrow seems to dim
Their beauty's glow, as if they missed her sweet
And gentle ministry, and wept bright tears
Of dew for their dear sister-spirit dead;
The wild-bird's music seems a wail of grief
Breathed for the loved and lost; the blessed beam
Has lost its smile, as if it sought in vain
For her fair angel-brow, on which to shed
Its answering lustre.
All is lone and drear—
I gaze upon her partner's grief-bow'd form,
And mark the deepened silver of his locks,
And my heart checks its selfish sighs. Her child,
I gaze upon her partner's grief-bow'd form,
And mark the deepened silver of his locks,
And my heart checks its selfish sighs. Her child,
