The Old Man's Favorite

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

Yesterday when you were hereShe was sitting on your knee,Whispering stories in your earWith an air of mysteryAnd a roguish glance at me.

Lucy'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 Lucy hides?I will tell you by-and-by;Look you where the river glidesIn whose depths the shadows lieMingled, of the earth and sky.

Lucy always loved that spot;There her favorite flowers grew—Violet, forget-me-not,Iris, with its gold and blue,Bending under beads of dew.

Oft on the old rustic bridgeFramed of supple boughs entwined,Hanging from each margin s ridge,Swinging softly in the wind,Lucy carelessly reclined.

Once she told me, while her eyesFilled with tears of childish bliss,That she could see ParadiseFrom her rocking resting-place,Mirrored in the river's face:

That she saw the tall trees wave,Bright-winged birds among the bowers,And a river that did laveBanks o'ergrown with wondrous flowers,And a sky more fair than ours.

Then she asked with such a smileAs a seraph's face might wear,If she watched a long, long while,She should see her mother there,Walking in the groves so fair?When, to answer her, I saidShe should see mamma in heaven,Lightly to the bridge she spedAs if wings to her were given,And—but look, you see 'tis riven.

Ah, you start!—your look is wild!—Calm yourself, old man, I pray;Lucy was no earthly child,And 'tis well she's gone awayTo her Paradise so gay.