Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/70

 54 JULIA L. DUMONT. [1820-30. One only sound — " The sea ! the sea !" Filled all the echoing sky ; For ten thousand voices, high and free, Blend in the pealing cry. If such were the mighty burst To an earthly home but given, How shall the Christian hosts greet first The glorious gates of heaven ? MY DAUGHTER NURSE.* I HEAR her still — that buoyant tread, How soft it falls upon my heart ; I've counted, since she left my bed. Each pulse that told of time a part. Yet in a di'eamy calm I've lain. Scarce bi-oke by fitful pain's strong thrill. As one who listening waits some strain Wont every troubled thought to still. And o'er me yet in visions sweet. The image of my precious child, Plying e'en now with busy feet. Some tender task — for me has smiled. Oh ! youth and health : rich gifts and high Are those wherewith your hours are crown'd ; The balm, the breath of earth and sky — The gladsome sense of sight and sound. The conscious rush of life's full tide, The dreams of hope in fairy bowers: Action and strength, their glee and pride. Are portions of your laughing hours. But, still to dim and wasting life, Thou bringest dearer gifts than these : Gifts, that amid pale, suffering strife. Love, filial love, beside me wreathes. Sweet draughts fresh-drawn from love's deep spring. Still lull my many hours of pain, And not all summer joys might bring A draught so pure from earthly stain. Why is it that thus faint and prone I may not raise my languid head ! — A daughter's arms around me thrown Yet lift me from my weaiy bed. And what have flowers or skies the while To waken in a mother's breast, Soft gladness like the beaming smile With which she lays me back to rest ? Those smiles, when all things round me melt In slumberous mist, my spirit fill : As light upon closed eyelids felt Beneath their curtaining shadow still. And still in happy dreams I hear. While angel forms seem o'er me bent. Her tones of ever-tender cheer. With their high whisperings softly blent. But hush ! that is her own light tread, It is her hand upon my brow ; And leaning silent o'er my bed, Her eyes in mine are smiling now. My child, my child, you bring me flowers — Spring's fragrant gift to deck my room ; But through the dark, drear, wint'ry hours Love — love alone has poured perfume.
 * The last lines from the pen of Mrs. Burnout.