Faint she grew, and ever fainter,
As she murmured - "O, that he Were once more that landscape painter, Which did win my heart from me!" So she drooped and drooped before him! Fading slowly from his side:
Three fair children first she bore him,
Then, before her time, she died.
Weeping, weeping late and early,
Walking up and pacing down,
Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh,
Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.
And he came to look upon her,
And he looked at her, and said —
"Bring the dress, and put it on her,
That she wore when she was wed."
Then her people, softly treading,
Bore to earth her body, dressed
In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest!
A MOTHER'S PRAYER IN ILLNESS.
YES, take them first, my Father! Let my doves Fold their white wings in heaven, safe on thy breast,
Ere I am called away: I dare not leave
Their young hearts here—their innocent, thoughtless hearts!
Ah, how the shadowy train of future ills
Comes sweeping down life's vista as I gaze!
My May! my careless, ardent-tempered May!
My frank and frolic child, in whose blue eyes
Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise;
Whose cheek the morning in her soul illumes;
Whose little, loving heart a word, a glance,
Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play,
And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms
Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks,
With her clear, flute-like voice, "Do you love me?"
Ah, let me stay! ah, let me still be by,
To answer her and meet her warm caress!
For, I away, how oft in this rough world
That earnest question will be asked in vain!
How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart
Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn at length
The hateful, withering lesson of distrust!
Ah, let her nestle still upon this breast,
In which each shade that dims her darling face
Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects
The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven! And thou,
My modest Ellen,- tender, thoughtful, true,—
Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies, —
My pure, proud, noble Ellen! with thy gifts
Of genius, grace, and loveliness half hidden
'Neath the soft veil of innate modesty,-
How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart To startle and appall! Thy generous scorn
Of all things base and mean, thy quick, keen
Dainty and delicate,- thy instinctive fear
Of those unworthy of a soul so pure,-
Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien,
All they will all bring pain to thee, my child!
And, O, if even their grace and goodness meet
Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all
The latent evil, yet undisciplined
In their young, timid souls, forgiveness find?
Forgiveness, and forbearance, and soft chidings,
Which I, their mother, learned of Love to give!
Ah, let me stay!-albeit my heart is weary,
Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat,
That finds no echo in this busy world,
Which cannot pause to answer, tired alike
Of joy and sorrow, of the day and night.
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