miscellaneous poems.
63
It played about a casement, an old man rested there,
But pallid were his aged lips, as was his whited hair.
But pallid were his aged lips, as was his whited hair.
Calm seemed the old man's slumber,—why drew they back in dread?
It was the calmness of the grave, the slumber of the dead.
We tremble at the warning, that tells us from the earth,
A spirit hath, in joyfulness, sprung to a holy birth!
It was the calmness of the grave, the slumber of the dead.
We tremble at the warning, that tells us from the earth,
A spirit hath, in joyfulness, sprung to a holy birth!
Within his withered fingers, clasped with a dying hold,
There seemed a gem of beauty;—did the old man prize the gold?
Oh! shame on such base feeling! when they loos'd the stiffened hand,
A lovely pictur'd face was there, a dark and braided band.
There seemed a gem of beauty;—did the old man prize the gold?
Oh! shame on such base feeling! when they loos'd the stiffened hand,
A lovely pictur'd face was there, a dark and braided band.
Oh! love unchanged, unchangeable! time hath o'er thee no power,—
