N the low wall of my chamber, where the moonbeams fall most brightly,
Mingling with the struggling firelight in a soft, uncertain strife,
Hangs a dear familiar picture, which I sit and gaze at nightly,
Till it seems no more a painting, but a form instinct with life.
A FANTASY.
N the low wall of my chamber, where the moonbeams fall most brightly, Mingling with the struggling firelight in a soft, uncertain strife,
Hangs a dear familiar picture, which I sit and gaze at nightly,
Till it seems no more a painting, but a form instinct with life.
'T is the face of one who early by life's rugged wayside fainted,
And above whose lonesome grave-mound are my bitterest tear-drops shed,—
One who often haunts my dreaming, with her face serene and sainted,
With her bright lips uttering blessings, and a glory round her head.
And above whose lonesome grave-mound are my bitterest tear-drops shed,—
One who often haunts my dreaming, with her face serene and sainted,
With her bright lips uttering blessings, and a glory round her head.
Often in my self-communings, while I muse on joys departed,
And the gloom which sadly follows, till my tears unbidden fall,—
Till the way grows dark before me, and I grow impatient-hearted,
Do I raise my eyes imploring to the picture on the wall,
And the gloom which sadly follows, till my tears unbidden fall,—
Till the way grows dark before me, and I grow impatient-hearted,
Do I raise my eyes imploring to the picture on the wall,
With a fond instinctive pleading,—with a child's entire confiding
In the mother whose affection it has learned to trust and prize,
Till a gentle resignation o'er my soul comes softly gliding,
Born of the enduring patience shining in those soft brown eyes.
In the mother whose affection it has learned to trust and prize,
Till a gentle resignation o'er my soul comes softly gliding,
Born of the enduring patience shining in those soft brown eyes.
And as o'er my troubled spirit flow the waves of holier feeling,
Till rebellious tears no longer in the glimmering firelight shine,
Then the magic picture slowly comes descending from the ceiling,
Till the face is close beside me, and the eyes look into mine.
Till rebellious tears no longer in the glimmering firelight shine,
Then the magic picture slowly comes descending from the ceiling,
Till the face is close beside me, and the eyes look into mine.
Lightly on my lifted forehead falls the soft hand's benediction,
And the lips in mild reproving, or in words of love unclose,
Till my spirit shrinks no longer weakly from its light affliction,
But a new-born strength and patience into all my being flows.
And the lips in mild reproving, or in words of love unclose,
Till my spirit shrinks no longer weakly from its light affliction,
But a new-born strength and patience into all my being flows.
And the hours pass by uncounted, while I sit in listening stillness,
Spellbound by the magic power of those mystical dark eyes,
Heeding not the fire-light's fading, or the hushed room's growing chillness,—
Seeing only those sweet features, as the moonlight on them lies.
Spellbound by the magic power of those mystical dark eyes,
Heeding not the fire-light's fading, or the hushed room's growing chillness,—
Seeing only those sweet features, as the moonlight on them lies.
But when day with shining footprints o'er the distant hills advances,
And the sun's unclouded rising sets the glowing east aflame,
Fades the vision of the night-time, with its train of shadowy fancies,
And the picture shrinks in silence to the prison of its frame.
And the sun's unclouded rising sets the glowing east aflame,
Fades the vision of the night-time, with its train of shadowy fancies,
And the picture shrinks in silence to the prison of its frame.