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I saw my mother's dying bed,
And then, amid the silent night,
And in my brain an awful light by the deev ustavo " i.
Did seem to crackle, Rosaline !
Thine eyes are shut : they never more
To tell the secret o'er and o'er
Thou couldst not smother, Rosaline !
Thy voice I never more shall hear,
Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,
I would more natures were like thine,
That never casts a glance before, — Thou Hete, who thy heart's bright wine
So lavishly to all dost pour, That we who drink forget to pine,
And can but dream of bliss in store.
Thou canst not see a shade in life ;
With sunward instinct thou dost rise, And, leaving clouds below at strife,
Gazest undazzled at the skies, With all their blazing splendors rife,
A songful lark with eagle's eyes.
Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours
Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth; Some influence more gay than ours
Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, As if thy natal-stars were flowers
That shook their seeds round thee on earth.
And thou, to lull thine infant rest,
Wast cradled like an Indian child ; All pleasant winds from south and west
With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest,
Till Nature looked at thee and smiled.
Thine every fancy seems to borrow
A sunlight from thy childish years, Making a golden cloud of sorrow,
A hope-lit rainbow out of tears, Thy heart is certain of to-morrow,
Though 'yond to-day it never peers.