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POEMS.
65
As the last embers of a fire
When crushed, gleam out with fiercer ire.
But 'twas not thus the man gazed down
With quiv'ring lip and lessened frown
To where there lay his worshipp'd child
Motionless in the terror wild.
"My child! my flower! sure thine eye
Looks on Death's might too fearfully!
Am I not scathless, and mine arm
Strong to save thee from touch of harm?
There shall not pass a blight to thee
That brings not first its doom to me!
Rise! Thou hast yet the eagle's might!
Thine eye hath still the Heaven's light!
Thy father guards thee! Dost thou still
Dream thou await'st another's will?"
And as he spoke, a burning glow
Of passion swept across his brow.
The young girl's face was bathed in tears,
Wrung from her not by woman's fears:
Sobs were her answer, as she lay,
Her young life passing there away.
The damp chill lying on that brow
The father deemed so bright but now;
The frail form quiv'ring at each breath,
Had warned her that she bent to death,
If she had trembled at that thought,
If at its coming it had brought