The Old Man's Favorite

Do you ask where she has fled—Fanny, with the laughing eyes?Should I tell you "She is dead,"You would mimic tears and sighs,And pretend a sad surprise.

Yester-week, when you were here,She was sitting on your knee,Whispering stories in your earWith an air of mystery,And a roguish glance at me.

Fanny's heart was always light,Light and free as plumed bird;When she glanced within our sight,Or her merry voice we heard,Music in our hearts was stirred.

Ask you still where Fanny hides?I will tell you by and by;Look you where the river glides,In whose depths the shadows lie,Mingled of the earth and sky.

Fanny always loved that spot;There her favorite flowers grew—Violet, Forget-me-not,And the Iris' gold and blue,With its pearly beads of dew.

Oft on the old rustic bridge,Made of supple boughs entwined,Hanging from each margin's ridgeLike a hammock in the wind,Fanny fearlessly reclined.

And she told me, while her eyesFilled with tears of childish bliss,That she could see Paradise,From her rocking resting-place,Mirrored in the river's face;

That she saw the tall trees wave;Bright—winged birds among their bowers;And a river that did laveBanks o'ergrown with fairest flowers,And a sky more bright than ours.

Then she asked, with such a smileAs an angel face might wear,If she watched a long, long while,She should see her mother there,Walking in the groves so fair.

When to soothe the child I said,She should see mamma in heaven,To that frail old bridge she spedAs if wings to her were given;And—but look—you see 'tis riven!

Ah! you start—your looks are wild—Calm yourself old man, I pray;Fanny was an angel child,And 'tis well she's gone awayTo her Paradise so gay!