Poems (Toke)/The two portraits

by Emma Toke

THE TWO PORTRAITS.

HILE on those well-known portraits round, I often gaze alone,Two, 'mid the forms unknown to me, I love to look upon.

The same fair face they both pourtray— Both young and happy seem;And oft they come upon my heart, Like visions of a dream.

And yet, long numbered with the dead, That face I never knew;But still, amid familiar ones, It seems familiar too.

Yes; on thy brow, sweet ancestress! Full oft I love to gaze,And mark thy fair and graceful form, Thy garb of other days:

For thine is that sweet, nameless spell, That steals o'er every heart,And lingers 'mid the memories That never can depart.

The light of peace and holy joy Is shining on thy brow;And every speaking feature tells That thou art happy now.

No care has dimmed thy spirit yet, No earthly shade is nigh;Thy gentle gravity but speaks Of holy thoughts and high.

Thy heart and hand alike are bound In wedlock's sacred bands;And by thy side, in manly youth, Thy happy husband stands.

All earth is full of hope to thee;— The past a dream of youth,—The future one bright path of love, Of tenderness and truth.

No marvel thou art happy then,— No marvel, as I gaze,That peaceful brow should seem a pledge Of bright and lengthened days!

Then to that other face I turn;— Thou still art young and fair,And happy too,—and yet, methinks A gentle change is there.

A shade of quiet thoughtfulness Is on thy placid brow;As if the cares of motherhood Were stealing o'er thee now.

And mingling there, there seems a tinge Of gentle sadness too;—Not sorrow, but some thought that comes To soften and subdue,

Thy pensive eyes seem watching, where Thy happy children play;While blending with thy thoughts of them, Come hours long past away.

The loved, the lost, the holy dead Are swiftly passing by,And blending with the fairy forms That glad thy loving eye.

I like to look upon that face It ever seems to meAn image of what woman's heart And woman's life should be:—

A loving spirit, lowly mind, A gentle heart and fair,So filled with home, the world can find No room to enter there.

And such tradition says wert thou: To all around thee dear;Thy pious life and bounteous hand Are still remembered here.

But soon, alas! thy race was run; Scarce ten short years had fledOf thy calm wedded life, when thou Wert numbered with the dead.

Nor cloudless e'en that fleeting day; For thou, in those few years,O'er more than one sweet infant, shed A mother's bitterest tears:

And far away from thy loved home, Where happiest years had sped,Thy fragile form decayed at last, Thy gentle spirit fled.

And only two memorials now Of all thy worth remain;—Thy portrait on the wall,—thy tomb, In yonder holy fane.

But still, whene'er I gaze upon That fair and gentle brow,I trust, as thou wert happy then, Thou art far happier now.

E.

January 15, 1841.