LINES
TO A DAUGHTER OF THE LATE GOVERNOR CLINTON.
BY J. B. VAN SCHAICK.—1829.
And thou, fair flower of hope! Like a sweet violet, delicate and frail, Hast reared thy tender stem beneath an oak, Whose noble limbs o'ershadowed thee. The damp Cold dews of the unhealthy world fell not On thee; the gaudy sunshine of its pomp Came tempered to thine eye in milder beams. The train of life's inevitable ills Fell like the April rain upon the flowers, But thou wert shielded—no rude pelting storms Came down unbroken by thy sheltering tree.
Fallen is the oak, The monarch of a forest sleeps. Around, The withered ivy and the broken branch Are silent evidence of greatness past, And his sweet, cherished violet has drunk The bitter dews until its cup was full. And now strange trees wave o'er it, and the shade Of weeping-willows and down-swaying boughs Stretch toward it with melancholy sorrow— All sympathizing with the drooping flower. And years shall pass ere living trees forget That stately oak, and what a fame he shed O'er all the forest, and how each was proud That he could call himself a kindred thing.
Long may the beauty of that violet Grow in the soil of hearts; till, delicate, Yet ripened into summer loveliness, A thousand branches all shall contending cast Their friendly shadows in protection there!
THE SON OF SORROW.
TO MYRA.