Have hailed the rosy-bosomed hours;
Say, art thou of the Court of Death,
Congealed by winter’s icy breath?’
She came, she went,—away, away;
And still she haunts the cheerful day;
But where is he, the mild, the bland,
With welcome in his eye and hand,
By whom that night an only child,
A sweetly budding daughter, smiled,
A radiant girl, while oft he stole