TO THE PICTURE OF MY CHILD.[1]

TO THE PICTURE OF MY CHILD.^[1]

———

BY META LANDER.

———

Oh! is it not a dream, my child?

Is not my yearning heart beguiled?

And have not then my longings wild

Disturbed my wildered brain?

Ah, no! the wish that night and day

Hath never, never passed away—

It stirred me not in vain.

Full many a dreary month has passed,

Since o’er me swept that chilling blast,

When on thee, child, I looked my last.

Oh! since that mournful hour,

How have I longed for some charmed art

To trace thine image from my heart

With thy rich beauty’s dower.

I see thee once again, my dove!

Thy face all radiant with love—

Thy parted rose-bud lips—they move—

Oh! will they never speak?

I list in vain, my warbling bird;

There gushes forth no loving word,

And tears steal down my cheek.

Thou puttest up thy month to kiss;

My heart is thrilled with wildest bliss—

And yet—and yet—something I miss—

Thought’s ever changeful play—

The variant, passing moods of life—

Its lights and shades in pleasant strife—

A dash of Sorrow’s spray.

I look upon thy morning face,

Enrapt with its sun-lighted grace—

But seek in vain the faintest trace

Of some o’ershadowing cloud.

Alas! dear child! it is not thou—

Sunshine laughed never on thy brow

When grief did mine enshroud.

I miss thy winsome tenderness—

Thy music-tones, so charmed to bless;

I miss thy soothing, fond caress—

Thy sweet lips on mine own.

Carrie, my child! thou wouldst not be

Thus mute in my keen agony.

Again I am alone!

Then hide that face from out my sight!

Its radiant smile and eyes of light

But mock me in my sorrow’s night—

I cannot bid it stay.

Too like it is, sweet one, to thee—

And oh! I cannot bear to see

That smile’s unbroken ray.

But hush, my heart! And would I, then,

Make thee a child of grief again,

And shroud thy boundless, starry ken

In Time’s bewildering night.

Ah, no! I would rejoice that now

Ray ever round thy cherub-brow

Beams of celestial light.

Freed from the cankering cares of life,

Its tears—its bitterness—its strife—

From all the ills with which is rife

This changing, mortal coil;

Oh! sweet forever be thy rest

In that Elysium of the blest—

Fair Eden’s genial soil.

How could I bear that thou shouldst weep?

That the sad angel, Grief, should keep

The key to thy dear heart, or sweep

O’er thee her storm-clouds wild!

Oh! let me weep my tears alone!

Ne’er shall thy lips breathe sorrow’s moan,

My own, my angel child!

Then while my aching heart is riven,

I lift it weeping up to heaven,

Exulting that to thee is given

Eternal sunlight sweet!

A sunlight imaged on thy brow,

Which doth not mock my misery now,

As thy love-glance I meet.

I look into thy moonlit eyes,

Wherein thy soul clear mirrored lies,

As heaven looks through the star-lit skies,

The wintry night to bless.

In their deep light is earnest thought—

Visions with inward beauty fraught

No language can express.

I gaze upon thy forehead fair,

Shadowed by thy brown, clustering hair,

And joy that is not written there

One line of grief or pain.

From that clear brow there beams a smile,

Which sweetly utters all the while

Mother, we meet again!

Oh! blest forever be that art

Which hath reversed the words—to part,

And back unto my yearning heart

My darling child hath given.

Around that face, in radiance bright,

Circleth an aureole of light—

Adumbrant sweet of heaven.

[1] By the poet-painter, T. Buchanan Read.