90
IN MEMORY OF MRS O'BRIEN.
Her cherub-child, is sporting in the bloom
Of infancy, but yet her very mirth
Seems strangely sad, as if her spirit felt
That Death's stern hand had crushed her parent stem,
And thrown her as a loosened bud to float
Upon the dark and stormy waves of time,
A thing of lone and blighted life.
Of infancy, but yet her very mirth
Seems strangely sad, as if her spirit felt
That Death's stern hand had crushed her parent stem,
And thrown her as a loosened bud to float
Upon the dark and stormy waves of time,
A thing of lone and blighted life.
Dear friend,
Friend of my childhood's bright and happy years,
Where dwells thy spirit, now? I feel its power
In this calm twilight air; I catch thy tone
In the sweet cadence of this evening gale;
I see the holy beauty of thy face
In the strange beauty of yon sunset cloud;
I feel thy breath upon my cheek, as though
Thy spirit in its angel mission o'er
The darkened earth, stooped from its glorious flight
To whisper hope and comfort to my bruised
And broken spirit. Can it be? Ah yes,
O'er this lone spot thy blight and guardian wings
Friend of my childhood's bright and happy years,
Where dwells thy spirit, now? I feel its power
In this calm twilight air; I catch thy tone
In the sweet cadence of this evening gale;
I see the holy beauty of thy face
In the strange beauty of yon sunset cloud;
I feel thy breath upon my cheek, as though
Thy spirit in its angel mission o'er
The darkened earth, stooped from its glorious flight
To whisper hope and comfort to my bruised
And broken spirit. Can it be? Ah yes,
O'er this lone spot thy blight and guardian wings
