Page:Scenes and Hymns of Life.pdf/97

Rh

The soul, the awakening soul I saw, My watching eye could trace The shadows of its new-born awe, Sweeping o'er that fair face: As o'er a flower might pass the shade By some dread angel's pinion made!

The soul, the mother of deep fears, Of high hopes infinite, Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears, Of sleepless inner sight; Lovely, but solemn, it arose, Unfolding what no more might close.

The red-leaved tablets, undefiled, As yet, by evil thought— Oh! little dream'd the brooding child, Of what within me wrought,