THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 83
Breathing his woes away. While distant far, She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks, Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still, In the heart's casket, a fond father's smile, And the pure music of his welcome home, Rich payment of her labours.
But there came
A summons of surprise, and on the wings Of filial love she hasted. 'Twas too late. The lamp of life still burned, yet 'twas too late. The mind had pass'd away, and who could call Its wing from out the sky ?
For the embrace
Of strong idolatry, was but the glare Of a fix'd vacant eye. Disease had dealt A fell assassin's blow. O God ! the blight That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain The passive hand was grasp'd, and the wide halls Re-echoed, " Father ! Father!"
Through the shades
Of that long, silent night, she sleepless bent, Bathing with tireless hand the unmov'd brow, And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair morn Came with its rose-tint up, she shrieking clasp 'd Her hands in joy ; for its reviving ray Flush 'd that wan brow, as if with one brief trace Of waken 'd intellect. 'Twas seeming all ; G 2
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