Classic Poem

That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair,
Beseem my child who weeps and plays,
A heavenly spirit guards her ways,
From whom she stole that mixture rare,
That shows thro' all her features mild.
The poet sees an angel there,
The Father sees his child.

And by the pure gleam of her eyes,
We see how lately that sweet sprite
Has left her native Paradise.
And still she wanders in its light,
All earthly things are but a shade,
Thro' which she pictures things above,
And sees the Holy Mother Maid,
Across her Mother's look of love.

She seems celestial songs to hear,
And virgin souls are whispering near,
Till by her radiant smile deceived,
I ask, “Young Angel, lately given,
When was thy martyrdom achieved,
And what name dost thou bear in Heaven?”