from Heart of Love
O the gentle admonition of time
whose cradle bore my soul to thine!
Or shall I say, that at his feet
we met, and we again shall meet?
Thy child, sweet, grows as thy rhyme -
which sweeter in another clime
calls now where angels' vantage hold
thy castellated wings of gold!
Snatched from thy bosom, shall I stand?
I clasp at heaven, as a hand
through which the festal mourner feels
thy sportive laughter midst the wheels!
Thy new-found harping at the gates
the watchful seraphim elates!
No, let not vision's fountain loan
grief for the mother of my own
struck from the autumn play of God
when crowned with starlets, lightning-shod!
Yet shall the shady cypress bear
eternal ringlets thou dost wear,
and, christening the brass with tear,
immortalize thine absence here!
From cot to king thy wellspring poured,
beloved of thy child, and Lord.