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THE CHARMED PICTURE.
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In vain, in vain!—too soon are felt
The wounds they cannot flee;
Better in childlike tears to melt,
Pouring my soul on thee!
Sweet face, that o'er my childhood shone,
Whence is thy power of change,
Thus ever shadowing back my own,
The rapid and the strange?
Whence are they charm'd—those earnest eyes?
—I know the mystery well!
In mine own trembling bosom lies
The spirit of the spell!
Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tis born—
Oh! change no longer, thou!
For ever be the blessing worn
On thy pure thoughtful brow!
