HER PILGRIMAGE.

The snow-flakes floated many a star To earth, from pale December's skies, When a fair spirit from afar Smiled through an infant's violet eyes. And as she sweetly breathed, the hours Wove, like a robe of gossamer, All grace about her, while the flowers Their tints and perfumes gave to her. In after time, when violets grew, And pale anemones veiled the land, She drooped her modest eyes of blue, And gave to Love her maiden hand. Four times the holy angels came, To greet her with a dear unrest; And, in a mother's saintly name, Left a young angel on her breast. Eight lustrums pure celestial eyes Beamed through her tender, loving gaze, Commingling all the sweet surprise Of heavenly with the earthly rays. At last, her gentle face grew pale As the anemones of spring; And whiter than her bridal veil Was that in which she took her wing. And than that fixed despair more white, Softly the stars, in feathery snows, Came, covering with serener light Her folded hands, her meek repose. Pale stars, through which the Night looked down, Until they wept away in showers On those dear hands, which clasped the crown, And closer still the cross, of flowers. The snow-flakes melt on earth in tears; The eternal stars in glory shine; While in the shroud of desolate years Dead Love awaits the immortal sign.