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A FANTASY.
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A FANTASY.
N the low wall of my chamber, where the moonbeams fall most brightly, Mingling with the struggling firelight in a soft, uncertain strife,
Hangs a dear familiar picture, which I sit and gaze at nightly,
Till it seems no more a painting, but a form instinct with life.
'T is the face of one who early by life's rugged wayside fainted,
And above whose lonesome grave-mound are my bitterest tear-drops shed,—
One who often haunts my dreaming, with her face serene and sainted,
With her bright lips uttering blessings, and a glory round her head.
And above whose lonesome grave-mound are my bitterest tear-drops shed,—
One who often haunts my dreaming, with her face serene and sainted,
With her bright lips uttering blessings, and a glory round her head.
Often in my self-communings, while I muse on joys departed,
And the gloom which sadly follows, till my tears unbidden fall,—
And the gloom which sadly follows, till my tears unbidden fall,—
