She murmur'd not, nor even seem'd to mourn, But losing all her love of solitude, Appear'd so active in each new pursuit, So wholly what her anxious father wish'd, That he repented not his cruelty. Believing in her happiness, he felt Himself the author, and became more proud Of his own wisdom: yet she often heard His wayward taunt or querulous complaint, And, from the lordly partner of her fate, The harsher sound of ignorant rebuke. She was a matchless woman, when she lost The timid graces of retiring youth, She still was lovely, for her shaded eyes Beam'd with a lofty sweetness, a content Beyond the pow'r of fortune to destroy. Careless of let or hindrance, she went on, Nor shrunk nor started at the many thorns Strew'd in her toilsome path; still looking forth To others' weal, forgetful it would seem, Perchance in heart despairing of her own. The friend, the help, the comforter of all, No voice was heard so cheerful, nor a step So bounding and so light. 'Twas wonderful! For I have seen her, when her polish'd arm Has clasp'd the nurseling, with her face conceal'd Bent fondly o'er; and I have mark'd each limb To boast a fine expansion, as if thrill'd With the deep feelings of maternal love And aching tenderness, too highly wrought For happy souls to cherish! they delight In painless joys, and, on the infant's cheek, Rounded and glowing with a finer bloom Than the wild-rose, careless imprint the kiss, Which sorrow always sanctions by a prayer. They in the radiance of its glancing eyes See nothing to suffuse with their own tears! Borne forward on the easy wing of Time, They travel on, they scarcely meet with Thought, Or, like a summer cloud, he passes by, His shadow rests one instant, and again The scene is calm and brilliant as before!