Poems (Curwen)/Nora

by Annie Isabel Curwen

Nora.

A little, loving, laughing sprite,
Her mother's torment and delight—
    Her last born, too;
Her father's pride, the household pet—
Her sweet eyes matched the violet,
    Her hair the sunbeams' hue.

Such pretty winsome ways had she,
This little maid of summers three,
    Whose voice was heard
Singing, singing all day long,
Snatches of some half-learnt song
    Like a blithsome bird.

She was so loved—and yet —and yet
Her day was o'er, her sun was set;
    And Death, inexorable foe,
Touched with his icy hand the face
The mother held in fond embrace—
    How could she let it go?

Poor mother-love, that fought in vain
The victory over death to gain,
    Now anguish-riven,
Is fain—for the dear sufferer's sake—
To plead unto the Lord to take
    The little one to Heaven.

The Tender Shepherd heard the plea,
And, "Give your little lamb to me,"
    He said. The mother wept;
But straightway, on His loving breast,
She laid her little one to rest—
    And Nora smiled and slept.

O mother wherefore weepest thou?
Your darling is an Angel now,
    Her starry eyes
Are beacon lights set in the sky —
Load-stars to draw your thoughts on high,
    Your soul to paradise.