Page:The-knickerbocker-gallery-(knickerbockergal00clarrich).djvu/664

Down went the play-things, and away
  Went all his pictured books:
His little hands, like fluttering wings,
  Were tremulous with joy,
And, happy in each other's arms,
  The father clasped his boy.

We lived and loved—a blessed life—
  As we shall live no more,
For angel-pinions bore him off
  From this despairing shore:
The cloud that shut him from my sight
  Cast back a fearful spell,
And made my quailing spirit shrink
  Where its dark shadow fell.

Blow softly, gently, southern breeze,
  Amind the buds and bloom,
And let your odor-laden airs
  Search all the quiet room:
You can not find his sweeter breath,
  Nor his red lips restore,
And though you gladden other hearts,
  You wring my own the more.

I read aright the moaning sigh
  Beneath my window-blind,
It is the loving sprite who seeks
  For one it can not find:
For one whose bright and starry eyes
  Are distant now, and dim,
While Memory fills its vacant halls
  And corridors with him.

O God! that such a world as this,
  So beautiful and brave,
Should be of all our fondest loves
  And dearest hopes the grave:
That in one bitter hour a blight
  Should change its glorious hue,
And wither beauties, which no showers
  Nor spring-time can renew!