Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/82

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.