THY heart is young and light, maiden; Thy sunny brow is fair; For Love, and Joy, and Hope now weave Life's brightest sunbeams there. Brothers and sisters turn to bless Thy ever-welcome form, And a father's arm is near to shield Thee from life's lightest storm.
But more, still more than this, maiden-- A mother's heart is near, To watch thy fair cheek, pale or flush-- To note each starting tear-- To gaze upon thy happy face, And pray that thy young heart May long be spared the bitter woe From cherished friends to part.
Oh, Love will make fond hearts, maiden, To offer at thy shrine; And Friendship many a blooming wreath Around thy path entwine: But the tears that o'er thy restless couch From a mother's eyes were shed, Will moist a green spot in thy heart When _those_ bright flowers are dead!
Then watch those loving eyes, maiden, That beam upon thee now; And cherish every silver hair That stealeth o'er that brow: For a mother's love's the purest ray, The brightest day-star given, To light us o'er Life's darkened way, And lead us up to Heaven.
OH, where art thou, beloved one, at this hour, So meet for fond affection's holy power, For all the tender memories that will The lonely bosoms of the absent fill?
Far, far away! Yet as my tearful eye Dwells on yon little watchfire in the sky, This thought comes stealing on its beam of light, _Our hearts shall meet at Mercy's throne to-night_!
THE gale is fresh upon my brow, The evening dew my cheek has wet, The bark moves merrily, and now The moonlight and the wave have met; The mountain heights their shadows throw, In dark and frowning majesty, Upon the rolling waters' flow, As sorrows cross young memory: What wants this scene to be divine? Thy gentle heart to beat with mine.
The lover's star her watch doth keep In the blue vault of yonder sky; While all around is hushed to sleep, I deem thy angel spirit nigh; 'Twere rapture never felt before In this serene and midnight noon, To hear from yonder lonely shore The watch-dog bay the full bright moon, Couldst thou be here to share this hour My heart's beloved and buried flower.
There is a spirit rides the air; I hear its murmur on the stream, I see its form of beauty fair Disporting in the moonlight beam It is the spirit of delight Of young affection's ecstasy, And in its form and features bright Thine own fair face and form I see: It hovers o'er my head, and now I feel its hand upon my brow.