Lydia

I saw her mother's eye of love As gently on her rest, As falls the light of evening's sun Upon a lily's breast. And the daughter to the mother raised Her calm and loving eye, As a lake, among its sheltering hills, Looks upward to the sky. I've seen a swelling rose-bud hang Upon its parent stem, Just opening to the light, and graced With many a dewy gem, And, ere that bud had spread its leaves And thrown its fragrance round, I've seen it perish on its stem, And drop upon the ground. So, in her yet unfolding bloom, Hath Lydia felt the blast; A worm unseen hath done its work;-- To earth the bud is cast, And on her lowly resting-place,-- As on the rose-bud's bed Drops from the parent tree are showered,-- Her parents' tears are shed. And other eyes there are that loved Upon that bud to rest; There's one who long had hoped to wear The rose upon his breast; Who'd watched and waited lovingly Till it was fully blown, And who had e'en put forth his hand, To pluck it as his own. A stronger hand than his that flower Hath gathered from its tree! And borne it hence, in Paradise To bloom immortally; And all that breathe the fragrance there That its young leaves exhale, It shall remind of Sharon's rose,-- The lily of the vale. The soldier father have I seen Suppress a struggling sigh, And a tear, whene'er he spoke of her, Stood trembling in his eye;-- No other daughter, in his arms, Had ever slept, a child, No other daughter, on his knee, Had ever sat and smiled. And he was far away from her, But for her had his fears, And anxious thoughts, upon his brow, Had left the stamp of years; And now the grave hath, from his hand, Received its sacred trust, And father's, mother's, lover's tears Have mingled with her dust. Peace to her dust! for, surely, peace Her gentle spirit knows; Around her narrow house, on earth, The night wind sadly blows, But heavenly airs, that through the trees Of life for ever play, Are breathing on her spirit's brow, To dry her tears away.