The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon Part 23

As they sweep o'er the snow-clad reaches wide, And the cold pale shroud where, on every side, The eyes are forced to rest.

And the stars shed their radiance pure, yet faint, Like aureole round the brow of a saint, As on earth they calm look down; And raising our tearful and heavy gaze On high, to their solemn, silvery rays, We whisper--"Thus s.h.i.+nes her crown."

Mother beloved, O sainted nun, Disciple true of the Crucified One, Thy teachings we keep for aye, Till, our life's brief course wrought out, we meet At our Father's glorious judgment-seat, In realms of cloudless day!

December 23rd, 1875.

SEA-Sh.o.r.e MUSINGS.

How oft I've longed to gaze on thee, Thou proud and mighty deep!

Thy vast horizon, boundless, free, Thy coast so rude and steep; And now entranced I breathless stand, Where earth and ocean meet, Whilst billows wash the golden sand, And break around my feet.

Lovely thou art when dawn's red light Sheds o'er thee its soft hue, Showing fair s.h.i.+ps, a gallant sight, Upon thy waters blue; And when the moonbeams softly pour Their light on wave or glen, And diamond spray leaps on the sh.o.r.e, How lovely art thou then!

Still, as I look, faint shadows steal O'er thy calm heaving breast, And there are times, I sadly feel, Thou art not thus at rest; And I bethink me of past tales, Of s.h.i.+ps that left the sh.o.r.e, And meeting with thy fearful gales, Have ne'er been heard of more.

They say thy depths hold treasures rare, Groves coral--sands of gold-- Pearls fitted for a monarch's wear And gems of worth untold; But these could not to life restore The idol of one home, Nor make brave hearts beat high once more That sleep beneath thy foam.

But I must chase such thoughts away, They mar this happy hour, Remembering thou dost but obey Thy Great Creator's, power; And in my own fair inland home, Mysterious, moaning main, In dreams I'll see thy snow-white foam And frowning rocks again.

THE WHISPERS OF TIME.

What does time whisper, youth gay and light, While thinning thy locks, silken and bright, While paling thy soft cheek's roseate dye, Dimming the light of thy flas.h.i.+ng eye, Stealing thy bloom and freshness away-- Is he not hinting at death--decay?

Man, in the wane of thy stately prime, Hear'st thou the silent warnings of Time?

Look at thy brow ploughed by anxious care, The silver hue of thy once dark hair;-- What boot thine honors, thy treasures bright, When Time tells of coming gloom and night?

Sad age, dost thou note thy strength nigh, spent, How slow thy footstep--thy form how bent?

Yet on looking back how short doth seem The checkered coa.r.s.e of thy life's brief dream.

Time, daily weakening each link and tie, Doth whisper how soon thou art to die.

O! what a weary world were ours With that thought to cloud our brightest hours, Did we not know that beyond the skies A land of beauty and promise ties, Where peaceful and blessed we will love--adore-- When Time itself shall be no more!

THE DEATH OF THE PAUPER CHILD.

Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale!

No sobs--no grieving now: No burning tears must thou let fall Upon that cold still brow; No look of anguish cast above, Nor smite thine aching breast, But clasp thy hands and thank thy G.o.d-- Thy darling is at rest.

Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lids Over the violet eyes, Whose liquid light was once as clear As that of summer skies.

Is it not bliss to know what e'er Thy future griefs and fears, They will be never dimmed like thine By sorrow's scalding tears?

Enfold the tiny fingers fair, From which life's warmth has fled, For ever freed from wearing toil-- The toil for daily bread: Compose the softly moulded limbs, The little waxen feet, Spared wayside journeys long and rough, Spared many a weary beat.

Draw close around the lifeless form The shreds of raiment torn, Her only birthright--just such rags As thou for years hast worn; Her earthly dower the bitter crust She might from pity crave, Moistened by tears--then, final gift, A pauper's lowly grave.

Now, raise thy spirit's gaze above!

See'st thou yon angel fair, With flowing robes and starry crown Gemming her golden hair?

Changed, glorified in every trait, Still with that beauty mild; Oh! mourning mother, thou dost know Thine own, thy late-lost child.

An heir to heaven's entrancing bliss, Veiled in its golden glow, Still thinks she of the lonely heart Left on this earth below.

Courage!--not long thy weary steps O'er barren wastes shall roam, Thy daring prays the Father now To quickly call thee home!

VERS DE SOCIeTe.

THE BRIDE OF A YEAR.

She stands in front of her mirror With bright and joyous air, Smoothes out with a skilful hand Her waves of golden hair; But the tell tale roses on her cheek, So changing yet so bright, And downcast, earnest eye betray New thoughts are hers to-night.

Then say what is the fairy spell, Around her beauty thrown, Lending a new and softer charm To every look and tone?

It is the hidden consciousness-- The blissful, joyous thought That she, at length hath wholly won The heart she long had sought.

To-morrow is her bridal day, That day of hopes and fears, Of partings from beloved friends, Of suns.h.i.+ne and of tears: To-morrow will she says the words, Those words whose import deep Will fix her future lot in life-- Well might she pause and weep!

Yet, only once, a pa.s.sing cloud Rests on her girlish brow, Her dark eye gleameth restlessly-- She's thinking of her vow.

But quick as light and fleecy clouds Flit o'er a summer sky, The shadow pa.s.seth from her brow, The trouble from her eye.

In silvery tones she murmurs forth "My heart is light and glad, Youth, beauty, hope, are all mine own, Then, why should I be sad?

To graver hearts leave graver thoughts And all foreboding fears, For me, life's suns.h.i.+ne and its flowers,-- I am too young for tears!"

AFTER THE BALL.

Silence now reigns in the corridors wide, The stately rooms of that mansion of pride; The music is hushed, the revellers gone, The glitt'ring ball-room deserted and lone,-- Silence and gloom, like a clinging pall, O'ershadow the house--'tis after the ball.

Yet a light still gleams in a distant room, Where sits a girl in her "first season's bloom;"