’twas night, and the cool and perfumed breeze,

breath’d soft mid the boughs of the waving trees,

or low to the wild wood-flowers it sigh’d,

while the tiny buds to its tones replied;

but when the gay music of fairy-glee,

in the clear, calm midnight rose merrily,

and a thousand glancing beings of air,

like countless gems held their revels there,

it fled from the woods and the flowers away,

and stole to a silent room, where lay

a dying girl:—

her mournful eyes

look’d out from their tears on the dark’ning skies,

where a single star in its glory shone,

like a haughty heart, bereft and lone.

[130]

round the marble brow waved the clust’ring hair,

and the tiny hands were clasp’d as in pray’r;

she spoke, and each low and trembling word

was sad as the wail of the widow’d bird.

“oh! sweet is the spell that the zephyr flings

as it sweeps o’er the wild harp’s silvery strings;

and soft is the murmur’d minstrelsy

of the flashing waves on the summer sea;

and the rain drops breathe, as they near the earth,

a gladsome chorus of joy and mirth;

the blue-bells ring ever in tones of glee,

and a pleasant sound hath the humming bee;

and though strangely sad is the spirit’s sigh,

when the crimson clouds leave the evening sky,

yet when sunbeams burst on the sleeping flowers,

with visions of streamlets and fragrant bowers,

with a flush of joy on their petals bright,

they ope with a chorus of wild delight.

the gem that gleams on the velvet vest,

that shelters each slumbering floweret’s breast,

and has whisper’d all night of its home on high,

where its sisters dwell in the beaming sky,

takes a sweeter tone when the dawning day

bids it leave the earth on its heavenward way;

the dancing brook murmurs a joyous tale,

of the leafy wood and mossy vale;

[131]

and have ye not heard, when the shades of night

hung dark o’er the earth, and the stars were bright,

a soft, sweet tone like the violet’s song,

or the lay of the waves as they glide along?

but no! it is sweeter than they, by far,

’tis the spirit-strain of some wand’ring star.

but softer than music of star or sea,

than dew drops’ murmur, or hum of the bee,

than the tale of the brook, or the song of the bird,

is the mystic spell of a gentle word;

it falls on the heart as a summer shower

on the fading leaves of the thirsting flower;

like a beam of hope, with its cheering ray,

it lightens the gloom of life’s weary way;

and when the darkness of death draws near,

and the spirit shrinks from a nameless fear,

it tells the soul of a radiant shore,

where sorrow and sighing are known no more.

but i am alone;—no loved one is nigh

to bend kindly o’er me and pray e’er i die:

i hear the clear song of the joyous bird,

but i listen in vain for one gentle word.”

then an aged man with his locks of snow,

press’d an earnest kiss on her fever’d brow;

she had knelt with him oft at the hour of prayer,

in her childhood’s home, when the world seem’d fair,

[132]

and a thousand flow’rs on her path were shed;—

but now, when they all were faded and dead,

and her heart was sad, and her soul most drear,

and death hover’d o’er her, he only was near.

“my child!”—he said—“though none o’er thee may weep,

fear not, for the angels a vigil shall keep

by thy lowly grave, and a requiem sing

for the bud that died in its blossoming.

yon star that is shining so brightly above,

would tell thee a tale of god’s merciful love;

for e’en as it glows through the darkness of night,

thy spirit shall beam in the land of light;

thy mother, my dear one, awaits thee on high,

she would welcome her child to her home in the sky.”

“my mother!” she murmur’d—a sweet smile play’d

round the tiny mouth, while the cool breeze stray’d

’mid the clustering curls on that low, pale brow,

and breath’d on the cheek of stainless snow;

but the dark eye was closed—the maiden ne’er stirred—

her spirit had passed with that gentle word.