Dedication

Edith! ten years are number'd, since the day,Which ushers in the cheerful month of May,To us by thy dear birth, my daughter dear,Was blest. Thou therefore didst the name partakeOf that sweet month, the sweetest of the year;But fitlier was it given thee for the sakeOf a good man, thy father's friend sincere,Who at the font made answer in thy name.Thy love and reverence rightly may he claim.For closely hath he been with me alliedIn friendship's holy bonds, from that first hourWhen in our youth we met on Tejo's side;Bonds which, defying now all Fortune's power,Time hath not loosen'd, nor will Death divide.

A child more welcome, by indulgent HeavenNever to parents' tears and prayers was given!For scarcely eight months at thy happy birthHad pass'd, since of thy sister we were left,—Our first-born and our only babe, bereft.Too fair a flower was she for this rude earth!The features of her beauteous infancyHave faded from me, like a passing cloud,Or like the glories of an evening sky:And seldom hath my tongue pronounced her nameSince she was sunnnon'd to a happier sphere.But that dear love so deeply wounded then,I in my soul with silent faith sincereDevoutly cherish till we meet again.

I saw thee first with trembling thankfulness,O daughter of my hopes and of my fears!Press'd on thy senseless cheek a troubled kiss,And breathed my blessing over thee with tears.

But memory did not long our bliss alloy;For gentle nature who had given reliefWean'd with new love the chasten'd heart from grief;And the sweet season minister'd to joy

It was a season when their leaves and flowersThe trees as to an Arctic summer spread:When chilling wintry winds and snowy showers,Which had too long usurp'd the vernal hoursLike spectres from the sight of morning, fledBefore the presence of that joyous May;And groves and gardens all the live-long dayRung with the birds' loud love-songs. Over all,One thrush was heard from morn till even-fall:Thy Mother well remembers when she layThe happy prisoner of the genial bed,How from yon lofty poplar's topmost sprayAt earliest dawn his thrilling pipe was heard;And when the light of evening died away,

That blithe and indefatigable birdStill his redundant song of joy and love preferr'd.

How I have doted on thine infant smilesAt morning when thine eyes unclosed on mine;How, as the months in swift succession roll'd,I mark'd thy human faculties unfold,And watch'd the dawning of the light divine;And with what artifice of playful guilesWon from thy lips with still-repeated wilesKiss after kiss, a reckoning often told,—Something I ween thou know'st; for thou hast seenThy sisters in their turn such fondness prove,And felt how childhood in its winning yearsThe attempered soul to tenderness can move.This thou canst tell; but not the hopes and fearsWith which a parent's heart doth overflow,—The thoughts and cares inwoven with that love,—Its nature and its depth, thou dost not, canst not know.

The years which since thy birth have pass'd awayMay well to thy young retrospect appearA measureless extent:—like yesterdayTo me, so soon they fill'd their short career.To thee discourse of reason have they brought,With sense of time and change; and something tooOf this precarious state of things have taught,Where Man abideth never in one stay;And of mortality a mournful thought.And I have seen thine eyes suffused in grief.When I have said that with autumnal greyThe touch of eld hath mark'd thy father's head;That even the longest day of life is brief,And mine is falling fast into the yellow leaf.

Thy happy nature from the painful thoughtWith instinct turns, and scarcely canst thou bearTo hear me name the Grave: Thou knowest notHow large a portion of my heart is there!

The faces which I loved in infancyAre gone; and bosom-friends of riper age,With whom I fondly talk'd of years to come,Summon'd before me to their heritageAre in the better world, beyond the tomb.And I have brethren there, and sisters dear,And dearer babes. I therefore needs must dwellOften in thought with those whom still I love so well.

Thus wilt thou feel in thy maturer mind;When grief shall be thy portion, thou wilt findSafe consolation in such thoughts as these,—A present refuge in affliction's hour.And if indulgent Heaven thy lot should blessWith all imaginable happiness.Here shalt thou have, my child, beyond all powerOf chance, thy holiest, surest, best delight.Take therefore now thy Father's latest lay,—Perhaps his last;—and treasure in thine heartThe feelings that its musing strains convey.A song it is of life's declining day,

Yet meet for youth. Vain passions to excite,No strains of morbid sentiment I sing,Nor tell of idle loves with ill-spent breath;A reverent offering to the Grave I bring,And twine a garland for the brow of Death.