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.