THE ONLY DAUGHTER

THEY bid me strike the idle strings,

As if my summer days

Had shaken sunbeams from their wings

To warm my autumn lays;

They bring to me their painted urn,

As if it were not time

To lift my gauntlet and to spurn

The lists of boyish rhyme;

And were it not that I have still

Some weakness in my heart

That clings around my stronger will

And pleads for gentler art,

Perchance I had not turned away

The thoughts grown tame with toil,

To cheat this lone and pallid ray,

That wastes the midnight oil.

Alas! with every year I feel

Some roses leave my brow;

Too young for wisdom's tardy seal,

Too old for garlands now.

Yet, while the dewy breath of spring

Steals o'er the tingling air,

And spreads and fans each emerald wing

The forest soon shall wear.

How bright the opening year would seem,

Had I one look like thine

To meet me when the morning beam

Unseals these lids of mine!

Too long I bear this lonely lot,

That bids my heart run wild

To press the lips that love me not,

To clasp the stranger's child.

How oft beyond the dashing seas,

Amidst those royal bowers,

Where danced the lilacs in the breeze,

And swung the chestnut-flowers,

I wandered like a wearied slave

Whose morning task is done,

To watch the little hands that gave

Their whiteness to the sun;

To revel in the bright young eyes,

Whose lustre sparkled through

The sable fringe of Southern skies

Or gleamed in Saxon blue!

How oft I heard another's name

Called in some truant's tone;

Sweet accents! which I longed to claim,

To learn and lisp my own!

Too soon the gentle hands, that pressed

The ringlets of the child,

Are folded on the faithful breast

Where first he breathed and smiled;

Too oft the clinging arms untwine,

The melting lips forget,

And darkness veils the bridal shrine

Where wreaths and torches met;

If Heaven but leaves a single thread

Of Hope's dissolving chain,

Even when her parting plumes are spread,

It bids them fold again;

The cradle rocks beside the tomb;

The cheek now changed and chill

Smiles on us in the morning bloom

Of one that loves us still.

Sweet image! I have done thee wrong

To claim this destined lay;

The leaf that asked an idle song

Must bear my tears away.

Yet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep

This else forgotten strain,

Till years have taught thine eyes to weep,

And flattery's voice is vain;

Oh then, thou fledgling of the nest,

Like the long-wandering dove,

Thy weary heart may faint for rest,

As mine, on changeless love;

And while these sculptured lines retrace

The hours now dancing by,

This vision of thy girlish grace

May cost thee, too, a sigh.