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THE LEGACY.
There, 'mid the many vanities of youth,
The picture lay; I knew her gentle face;
The eyes recalled the likeness, though the bloom
Of the sweet season which the portrait wore,
Had long been past away.
The same, yet not the same—her face
Has still that Grecian line;
The sculptured perfectness whose grace
Has long been held divine.
But all beside is changed: that face
Has spring upon its rose;
The eyes—the daylight's earliest break
Has sunshine such as those.
The very painter's hues have caught
The spirit from within,
The light with which young life is fraught,
Ere care and cloud begin.
