THE INVALID STRANGER.
Reading edition
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
———
BY MISS MARY E. LEE.
———
I ne’er had seen her face before, and yet
’Twas difficult to own that she was but
A common stranger; till a little while
I gave my fancy freedom, and was pleased
To shadow out some former spirit-sphere,
Where we had held companionship, and twined
A subtile link of sympathy and love.
Where lay her secret spell? What charm of hers
Thus played upon the harp-string of my mind,
Stirring it up to music? I knew not!
The maiden was all loveliness, and wore
Her beauty like a queenly robe, but yet
It was not that which won my lingering gaze,
And made me yearn to ask her tale of life,
And tell it out in poetry. ’Twas strange!—
Yet, though I studied long, I could not learn
The color of her eye, that seemed to change
Beneath the ivory lid, from brilliant black
To liquid hazel, then to full, soft gray,
Fast melting into violet: Nor the hue
Of her loose curls, to which each passing breeze
Gave some new shaping; making them appear
Within the shade, pale auburn; but when stirred
In sunny light, like sprinkling gleams of gold
Within a silken tissue. More than all,
Were I an artist, it were needless task
To seek to match the tinting of her cheek,
One moment wan to sickliness, and then
Trying which best became it, the pure snow
Of the white lily, or the delicate blush
Of the pale, perfumed wild-rose. I was blind
To all this touching beauty, and looked not
Upon the outward temple, for my mind
Had caught some glimpses of the shrine within,
And gave that all my worship. It was soul.
High, holy, living, intellectual soul,
That lit her perfect features, like a lamp,
That burns in alabaster; or some star
Whose rays vibrating through the ether’s space,
Transmit its softened image from afar.
Yes! this it was that made me read her face,
E’en as one reads the language of a book,
With a forgetful earnestness, until
The secret fountains of my heart were moved,
Unto the Giver of all good for her,
And oh! may it be answered.
God of Love!
Lend, for her sake, to winter’s frosty sky,
A genial influence, till the prisoned bird
Of health shall flatter fearlessly beyond
The narrow bars of sickness, and with life
Sparkling and clear, as diamond newly set,
The graceful stranger safely may return
Unto the fitting casket of her home!