Classic Poem

I

What do I see in Cecile's eyes
More than the first divine surprise?
The olden dignity of Spain
Made gentle by remembered pain;
The mountain-courage of Savoy;
Rich vintage of Italian joy;
The poised serenity of France,
Gift of a high inheritance;
And, best of all, — from what deep spring? —
Such sympathy with suffering
As takes from sorrow half the sting.

Surely to these soft eyes 'twas given
To bring authentic word from Heaven —
For thus their sweet suggestions run:
That Love and Duty are but one.

II

H ERE , on this upland farm,
In the fair mid of May,
Where bees in golden swarm
Melodiously stray,
How sweet the orchard bloom,
The honeysuckle scent,
The lilac's soft perfume,
In one warm fragrance blent!
But something sweeter still
Exhales from garden ways —
A soul unsoiled by ill,
The darling of our praise.

Who heard her tones' caress,
Or saw her smiling eyes,
Ne'er spoke of happiness
As a lost paradise.
We weep, but we rejoice,
Who knew her spirit's spell —
The angel in her voice
That told us all is well.
In every tempest, calm;
Sure, when our doubt would grope;
To all our sorrow, balm,
The darling of our hope.

We place upon her now
The symbols she loved best —
One cross upon her brow,
Another on her breast.
Mother to suffering men,
Brief her own motherhood.
Her courage served her then
That had so much withstood.
Hark! from her window-tree
I hear the mourning dove;
Not gentler it than she,
The darling of our love.