Thus Lucy rested--finding day by day Her grateful heart the saving hand repay. Calantha loved her as the sad alone Love what consoles them;--in that life her own Seem'd to revive, and even hope to flower: Ah, over Sorrow Youth has such sweet power! The very menials linger'd as they went, To spy the fairy to their dwelling sent, To list her light step on the stair, or hark Her song;--yes, _now_ the dove was in the ark! Ev'n the cold Morvale, spell'd at last, was found Within the circle drawn his guest around; Less rare his visits to Calantha grew, And her eye shrunk less coldly from his view The presence of the gentle third one brought Respite to memory, gave fresh play to thought; And as some child to strifeful parents sent, Laps the long discord in its own content, This happy creature seem'd to reach that home, To say--"Love enters where the guileless come!" It was not mirth, for mirth she was too still; It was not wit, wit leaves the heart more chill; But that continuous sweetness, which with ease Pleases all round it, from the wish to please,-- This was the charm that Lucy's smile bestow'd; The waves' fresh ripple from deep fountains flow'd;-- Below exhaustless gratitude,--above, Woman's meek temper, childhood's ready love. Yet oft, when night reprieved the tender care, And lonely thought stole musing on to prayer; As some fair lake reflects, when day is o'er, With clearer wave from farther glades the shore, So, her still heart remember'd sorrows glass'd; And o'er its hush lay trembling all the past, Again she sees a mother's gentle face; Again she feels a mother's soft embrace; Again a mother's sigh of pain she hears, And starts--till lo, the spell dissolves in tears! Tears that too well the faithful grief reveal, Which smiles, by day made duties, would conceal. VI. It was a noon of summer in its glow, And all was life, but London's life, below; As by the open casement half reclined Calantha's languid form;--a gentle wind Brought to her cheek a bloom unwonted there, And stirr'd the light wave of the golden hair. Hers was a beauty that made sad the eye, Lovely in fading, like a twilight sky; The shape so finely, delicately frail, As form'd for climes unruffled by a gale; The lustrous eye, through which looks forth the soul, Bright and more brightly as it nears the goal; The fever'd counterfeit of healthful bloom, The rose so living yet so near the tomb; The veil the Funeral Genius lends his bride, When, fair as Love, he steals her to his side, And leads her on till at the nuptial porch, He murmurs, "Know me now!" and lowers the torch. What made more sad the outward form's decay, A soul of genius glimmer'd through the clay; Oft through the languor of disease would break That life of light Parnassian dreamers seek; And music trembled on each aspen leaf Of the boughs drooping o'er the fount of grief.