Page:Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.djvu/110

 HOLTROOD. 85

The arras, with its storied lore,

By her own busy needle wrought, The couch, where oft her throbbing brow

For sweet oblivion vainly sought ;

The basket, once with infant robes

So rich, her own serene employ, While o er each lovely feature glowed

A mother s yet untasted joy ;

The candelabra s fretted shaft,

Beside whose flickering midnight flame

In sad communion still she bent With genial France, from whence it came ;

Those sunny skies, those hearts refined, The wreaths that Love around her threw,

The homage of a kneeling realm, The misery of her last adieu !

Ah ! were her errors all resolved

To their first elemental fount, Must not her dark and evil times

Share deeply in the dire amount ?

We may not say ; we only know

Their record is with One on high, Who ne er the unuttered motive scans

With partial or vindictive eye.

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