The spells that move her soul
Are subtle—sad or droll—
She can show
That virtuoso whim
Which consecrates our dim
Long-ago.
A love that is not sham
For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb;
And I've known
Cordelia's sad eyes
Cause angel-tears to rise
In her own.
Her gentle spirit yearns
When she reads of Robin Burns—
Luckless Bard!
Had she blossomed in thy time,
How rare had been the rhyme
—And reward!
Thrice happy then is he
Who, planting such a Tree,
Sees it bloom
To shelter him—indeed
We have sorrow as we speed
To our doom!
I am happy having grown
Such a Sapling of my own;
And I crave
No garland for my brows,
But peace beneath its boughs
Till the grave.
O DOMINE DEUS
"O DOMINE DEUS,
SPERAVI IN TE,
O CARE MI JESU,
NUNC LIBERA ME."
Her quiet resting-place is far away,
None dwelling there can tell you her sad story:
The stones are mute. The stones could only say,
"A humble spirit passed away to glory."
She loved the murmur of this mighty town,
The lark rejoiced her from its lattice prison;
A streamlet soothes her now,—the bird has flown,—
Some dust is waiting there—a soul has risen.