THE ANGEL’S MESSAGE.
’Twas a beautiful evening:—towards the calm west
The god of the summer triumphantly rolled;
As the glory gates oped to receive their bright guest
They let out a torrent of heaven’s own gold.
It mellowed the lawn, where the poplar’s tall spire
Threw a shade, which dissolved as it longer became.
It lit up the hall like a temple of fire
As its old Norman windows reflected the flame.
All was silent; for Philomel yet did not raise
His song, which both sadness and rapture inspire:
The thrush and finch ceased their vesper of praise
To gaze on the glory: and mutely admire.
The newly born zephyr, so gentle and mild,
Strayed over the lawn to a chamber above,
Where her sad mother sighed o’er her withering child,
The frail blossom born of unsanctified love.
Oh! the sigh from an innocent heart—like the breeze
Which distils from the flowers those essences rare,
Too subtle for e’en the inquisitive bees—
Is laden with sweetness that medicines care.
But not so the breathings exhaled from the breast
Where guilt makes a sepulchre, shame finds a home;
And the hope that with virtue alone deigns to rest,
With its heavenly solace may never more come.
Yet the scene was so tranquil, the grandeur so calm,
That its influence e’en to that sad heart would steal;
Like an angel of charity pouring its balm
To soothe the deep wound that it never might heal.
And the mother sat watching that dear life, whose ebb
Was so stealthy, that even love’s fears were beguiled,
Till the spider-fay sleep spun its magical web
’Twixt the frail one’s fond eyes and her innocent child.
And the soft zephyrs played on each delicate brow,
Like tender caresses of angels unseen;
Now lifting a curl from a forehead of snow,
Now kissing a cheek where a tear-pearl had been.