Page:Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir 1828.pdf/5

 To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. To strangers?—oh! could strangers raise the head, Gently as her's was raised?—did strangers shed The kindly tears which bathed that pale young brow, And feverish cheek, with half unconscious flow?— Something was there, that through the heavy night Outwatches patiently the taper's light; Something that bows not to the day's distress, That knows not change, that fears not weariness: Love, true and perfect love!— Whence came that power, Upbearing through the storm the fragile flower? Whence?—who can ask?—the long delirium passed, And from her eyes the spirit looked at last Into her mother's face!—and, wakening, knew The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue— The kind, sweet smile of old!—And had she come, Thus in life's evening from her distant home, To save her child? Even so. Nor yet in vain— In that young heart a light sprung up again! And lovely still, with so much love to give, Seemed this fair world, though faded; still to live Was not to pine forsaken! On the breast That rocked her childhood, falling in soft rest— "Sweet mother! gentlest mother!—can it be?" The lorn one cried—"And do I gaze on thee? Take home thy wanderer from this fatal shore— Peace shall be our's, amidst our vines once more!"