TO LAURA W——,

TWO YEARS OF AGE.

Bright be the skies that cover thee,Child of the sunny brow!Bright as the dream flung over thee,By all that meets thee now.Thy heart is beating joyously,Thy voice is like a bird’s,And sweetly breaks the melodyOf thy imperfect words.I know no fount that gushes out,As gladly as thy tiny shout.Thy coral lip is pencilled well,Thy cheek is deeply dyed;Thine eye might shame the fleet gazelle,In all his desert pride;Thy fairy foot’s uncertain step,Thy light bewitching grace,The smile that curls thy sleeping lip,And lights thy radiant face;Have made a gift of beauty upToo fair to taste life’s tainted cup.I would that thou mightst ever beAs beautiful as now;That time might ever leave us freeThy yet unwritten brow!I would life were all poetryTo gentle measures set,That nought but chastened melody,Might dim thine eye of jet,Nor one discordant note be spoken,Till God the cunning harp hath broken.I would—but deeper things than theseWith woman’s lot are wove;Wrought of intenser sympathies,And nerved by purer love.By the strong spirit’s discipline,By the fierce wrong forgiven,By all that wrings the heart of sin,Is woman won to heaven.‘Her lot is on thee,’ lovely child!God keep thy spirit undefiled!I fear thy gentle loveliness,Thy witching tone and air,Thine eye’s beseeching earnestness,May be to thee a snare.For silver stars may purely shine,The waters taintless flow;But they who kneel at woman’s shrine,Breathe on it as they bow.Ye may fling back the gift again,But the crushed flower will leave a stain.What shall preserve thee, beautiful child!Keep thee, as thou art now?Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,At God’s pure throne to bow?The world is but a broken reed,And life grows early dim—Who shall be near thee in thy need,To lead thee up, to Him?He who himself was ‘undefiled’—With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!

Bright be the skies that cover thee,

Child of the sunny brow!

Bright as the dream flung over thee,

By all that meets thee now.

Thy heart is beating joyously,

Thy voice is like a bird’s,

And sweetly breaks the melody

Of thy imperfect words.

I know no fount that gushes out,

As gladly as thy tiny shout.

Thy coral lip is pencilled well,Thy cheek is deeply dyed;Thine eye might shame the fleet gazelle,In all his desert pride;Thy fairy foot’s uncertain step,Thy light bewitching grace,The smile that curls thy sleeping lip,And lights thy radiant face;Have made a gift of beauty upToo fair to taste life’s tainted cup.

Thy coral lip is pencilled well,

Thy cheek is deeply dyed;

Thine eye might shame the fleet gazelle,

In all his desert pride;

Thy fairy foot’s uncertain step,

Thy light bewitching grace,

The smile that curls thy sleeping lip,

And lights thy radiant face;

Have made a gift of beauty up

Too fair to taste life’s tainted cup.

I would that thou mightst ever beAs beautiful as now;That time might ever leave us freeThy yet unwritten brow!I would life were all poetryTo gentle measures set,That nought but chastened melody,Might dim thine eye of jet,Nor one discordant note be spoken,Till God the cunning harp hath broken.

I would that thou mightst ever be

As beautiful as now;

That time might ever leave us free

Thy yet unwritten brow!

I would life were all poetry

To gentle measures set,

That nought but chastened melody,

Might dim thine eye of jet,

Nor one discordant note be spoken,

Till God the cunning harp hath broken.

I would—but deeper things than theseWith woman’s lot are wove;Wrought of intenser sympathies,And nerved by purer love.By the strong spirit’s discipline,By the fierce wrong forgiven,By all that wrings the heart of sin,Is woman won to heaven.‘Her lot is on thee,’ lovely child!God keep thy spirit undefiled!

I would—but deeper things than these

With woman’s lot are wove;

Wrought of intenser sympathies,

And nerved by purer love.

By the strong spirit’s discipline,

By the fierce wrong forgiven,

By all that wrings the heart of sin,

Is woman won to heaven.

‘Her lot is on thee,’ lovely child!

God keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness,Thy witching tone and air,Thine eye’s beseeching earnestness,May be to thee a snare.For silver stars may purely shine,The waters taintless flow;But they who kneel at woman’s shrine,Breathe on it as they bow.Ye may fling back the gift again,But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

I fear thy gentle loveliness,

Thy witching tone and air,

Thine eye’s beseeching earnestness,

May be to thee a snare.

For silver stars may purely shine,

The waters taintless flow;

But they who kneel at woman’s shrine,

Breathe on it as they bow.

Ye may fling back the gift again,

But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child!Keep thee, as thou art now?Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,At God’s pure throne to bow?The world is but a broken reed,And life grows early dim—Who shall be near thee in thy need,To lead thee up, to Him?He who himself was ‘undefiled’—With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child!

Keep thee, as thou art now?

Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,

At God’s pure throne to bow?

The world is but a broken reed,

And life grows early dim—

Who shall be near thee in thy need,

To lead thee up, to Him?

He who himself was ‘undefiled’—

With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!

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