Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/430

IT IS LOVE.
I asked a prattling infant, while it played
 Upon its mother's bosom with delight,
And while the golden tresses careless strayed
 Around its dimpled shoulders pure and white—
"What feel'st thou for thy parent, gentle dove?"
 It smiled in innocence and lisped, "'Tis love."

I asked a beauteous girl, as bright and pure
 As blooming flowers of a summer day;
Nor grief, nor sadness from her eye could lure
 A tear, her smiling did not chase away.
For with despair her youthful heart ne'er-strove—
 "What makes thee glad?" she laughing answered, "Love,"

I asked a maid, whose eye had ceased to glow.
 Or light the beauty of her faded cheek,
And melancholy sat upon her brow.
 And grief was in her smile;—yet she was meek.
And calm as spirits of the realms above—
 "What mars thy peace?" she faintly whispered, "Love."

I asked a loving wife, whose constant care
 To cheer the loved one, was her greatest pleasure,
And strove incessantly that she might share
 The love that was her dearest earthly treasure.
For virtue round their hearts her chaplet wove—
 "What sweetens woman's toil?" she answered, "Love."

THE PICTURE ON THE WALL.

Our Lillie was fair as a fairy,
 As modest and meek as a dove,
As placid and pure as a peri.
 But her heart it was fuller of love.
And merry was she, as a swallow.
 And her smile it was sweeter than all
The smiles that the painter, Apollo,
 Ever penciled to hang on the wall.

Then we trimmed up her bonny brown tresses.
 While her dimples sank down in a smile—
Dressed her up in the best of her dresses,
 Interlaced in the daintiest style;
Then we called her our sweet little swallow,
 The bonniest beauty of all.
And we smiled, as the glance of Apollo
 Traced her picture to hang on the wall.

But Lillie grew pale, just to teach us
 That heaven had a claim on its own,
And we feared that the duplicate features
 Of Lillie would soon be alone.
Then her eye it grew fainter and fainter.
 And her voice lost the trill in its call,
And we bless'd then Apollo, the painter.
 For the picture that hangs on the wall.

Now Lillie lies under the roses,
 That wearily wave at her head,
But she heeds not, that where she reposes
 Is chilly, for Lillie is dead.
And this picture, that never shall perish,
 Is all that is left of her, all.
And oh, how the image we cherish
 Of Lillie, that hangs on the wall.