Dear little angel of my heart

Dear little angel of my heart,
How full of life thy cheek is flushing!
But when I tell thee we must part,
How softly pure thy tears are gushing!

Though thou art but the opening bloom,
The promise of a richer treasure;
Thy breath is still love's sweet perfume,
Thy smile, the dearest smile of pleasure.

But love with thee is heavenly love,
And pleasure—O how pure, how holy!
The fondness of a cooing dove,
That toys and sports, nor dreams of folly.

Sweet innocent, O, I could dream
Of thy pure angel-charms for ever,
Could sun me in thine eye's warm beam,
And when thou smil'st, be sad—O, never!

I love thee as I love the child,
When on its mother's bosom smiling,
And low she sings her murmur wild,
The startled cherub's fears beguiling.

Thy flaxen locks, thine eyes of blue,
Thy ruby lips all sweetly blooming,
Thy smile, like roses wet with dew,
The murmuring breath of morn perfuming,—

Thy glance, that smiles when joy is nigh,
Now through the tear of pity stealing,
When faintly bursts the stifled sigh,
And sweetly breathes the voice of feeling,—

O, when I gaze on charms so bright,
So heavenly fair, so richly glowing,
I feel a thrilling, pure delight
Through every vein and fibre flowing:

As if my eyes beheld a form
Of cherub-light from Heaven descending,
With looks that speak affection warm,
O'er sorrow's couch in pity bending.

O, dearest! thou art happy now,
No pang thy bosom's peace alarming;
Contentment smiles upon thy brow,
And virtue—O how pure, how charming!

And let it not disturb thy rest,
That soon thou meet'st a world of sorrow;
But from the heaven within thy breast,
The aid to bear its evils borrow.

And O, my dear,—my only dear,—
Should fate the bands that twine us sever,
I still would shed the bitter tear,
And think of Mary—O, for ever!
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