And life return'd,
Life, but with all its memories of the Dead,
To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learn'd
Her task of meek endurance, well she wore
The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore
Midst blinding tears.—But unto that old pair,
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air,
Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tune,
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon
Depart with childhood.—Sadly they had seen
A daughter to the Land of Spirits go,
And ever from that time, her fading mien,
And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low,
Had haunted their dim years; but Edith's face
Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place,
And they again seem'd parents.—Oh! the joy,
The rich, deep blessedness,—though Earth's alloy,
Fear that still bodes, be there,—of pouring forth
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and worth
Of strong affections, in one healthful flow
On something all its own!—that kindly glow
Which to shut inward is consuming pain,
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again,
When, like the sunshine, freed.—And gentle cares
Th' adopted Edith, meekly gave for theirs,
Who lov'd her thus:—her spirit dwelt, the while,
With the Departed, and her patient smile
Spoke of farewells to earth; yet still she pray'd
E'en o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place
Had been among the wilds; for well she knew
The secret whisper of her bosom true,
Which warn'd her hence.
And now, by many a word
Link'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd;
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn,
Sung when the woods at eve grew hush'd and dim;
By the persuasion of her fervent eye,
All eloquent with child-like piety;
By the still beauty of her life, she strove
To win for Heaven, and heaven-born truth, the love
Pour'd out on her so freely. Nor in vain
Was that soft breathing influence to enchain
The soul in gentle bonds: by slow degrees
Light follow'd on, as when a summer-breeze
Parts the deep masses of the forest-shade,
And lets the sunbeam through: her voice was made
Ev'n such a breeze; and she, a lowly guide
By faith and sorrow raised and purified,
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led,
Until their prayers were one:—When morning spread
O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow
Touch'd into golden bronze the cypress-bough,
And when the quiet of the Sabbath-time
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime
Waken'd the wilderness, their prayers were one:
—Now might she pass in Hope, her work was done.
And she was passing from the woods away;
The broken flower of England might not stay
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