THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 85
The lordly mansion ; and cold, worldly men, Even o'er the coffin and the warning shroud, Revolving selfish schemes.
But one was there
To whom all earth could render nothing back, Like that pale changeless brow. Calmly she stood, As marble statue. Not one trickling tear, Or trembling of the eye-lid, told she liv'd, Or tasted sorrow. The old house-dog came, Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm, All unreproved.
He for his master mourn 'd. And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft His shaggy length, through many a fireside hour, Stretch'd at her father's feet ? who round his bed Of sickness watch 'd with wishful, wondering eye Of earnest sympathy ? No ; round his neck Her infant arms had clasp 'd, and still he rais'd His noble front beside her, proud to guard The last, lov'd relic of his master's house.
The deadly calmness of that mourner's brow Was a deep riddle to the lawless thought Of whispering gossips. Of her sire they spake, Who snffer'd not the winds of heaven to touch The tresses of his darling, and who dream 'd, In the warm passion of his heart's sole love, She was a mate for angels. Bold they gaz'd
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