But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o’ermantling its fresh days;—
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight
In one so fair—for she indeed was fair;
Not with her mother’s dazzling eyes of light—
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer,
And with long lashes o’er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek,
Still that fond child’s—and oh! the brow above
So pale and pure! so form’d for holy love