THE DAUGHTER.
Wheels o'er the pavements roll'd, and a light form
Just in the bud of blushing womanhood
Press'd the paternal threshhold. Wrathful Night
Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung
On that fair creature's rich and glossy curls.
She stood, and shiver'd, but no mother's hand
Dried those damp tresses, and with warm caress
Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand
Was with the cold, dull earth-worm.
—Grey and sad,
The tottering nurse rose up, and that old man,
The soldier-servant who had train'd the steeds
Of her slain brothers, for the battle field,
Essay'd to lead her to the couch of pain,
Where her sick father pined. Oft had he yearn'd
For her sweet presence, oft, in midnight's watch,
Mus'd of his dear one's smile, till dreams restor'd
The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip
Breathing his woes away. But distant far,
She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks,
Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still
In the heart's casket, a fond father's smile,
And the pure music of his welcome-home,
Rich guerdon of her labors.
But there came
A summons of surprise, and on the wings
Of filial love she hasted.
—'Twas too late!
The lamp of life still burn’d,—yet 'twas too late.
