TERESA.
Am I too happy? Have I lost
The hymns of heaven, the shining host,
For the low song my Bertrand sings
Beneath the shade the myrtle flings
Across the door in sunset glow?
And for my cherub Angelo?—
My glorious boy with sweeter smile
Than wears, within St. Francis' aisle,
That infant John the friars say
Will yet take wing and soar away!
Nay,—Mary, grace! with hair of gold
And brow like the young Christ's you hold,
O'er the high altar, hovering fair,
Upborne by some celestial air!
The hymns of heaven, the shining host,
For the low song my Bertrand sings
Beneath the shade the myrtle flings
Across the door in sunset glow?
And for my cherub Angelo?—
My glorious boy with sweeter smile
Than wears, within St. Francis' aisle,
That infant John the friars say
Will yet take wing and soar away!
Nay,—Mary, grace! with hair of gold
And brow like the young Christ's you hold,
O'er the high altar, hovering fair,
Upborne by some celestial air!
How calm he sleeps upon my breast!
Would the great Father send such guest
Into my bosom, if to win
And welcome were a deadly sin?
Or give the boy my Bertrand's eyes
If evil lurked in Bertrand's guise?
Hark! 'tis his step across the sward;
Forgive me if I wander, Lord!
But oh, I surely love Thee more
For the dear face beside the door,
Would the great Father send such guest
Into my bosom, if to win
And welcome were a deadly sin?
Or give the boy my Bertrand's eyes
If evil lurked in Bertrand's guise?
Hark! 'tis his step across the sward;
Forgive me if I wander, Lord!
But oh, I surely love Thee more
For the dear face beside the door,
