On this, the day, my sister, when thou gav'st
Thy spirit back to Him who lent it thee,
And the young soul, yet virgin of all stain,
Beneath its new-fledg'd wings receiv'd the gale
That bore it to the valleys of the bless'd,
Far from a world for which it was too good,
On this the day that still for me revives
Thy final agony, that last dim hour
It was deny'd thy brother to make bright,
Yet, with a tearful but delicious sense,
Brings thy immaculate virtue to my view,
It will methinks be well, with the mind's eye,
To gaze the vista of thy blameless life.
'T will soothe my grief, and not dishonor thee.
Is 't not thy spirit hovers o'er me now,
Touching my lips? My sister! O, my sister!
In the fourth quarter of the year's small round, Four score and sixteen hours from the day When MARY's Son was given to the world, "T is five and twenty winters past, I read,
That then, what time the wakeful bird proclaims
To the cold stars the second hour of morn,
A lovely flower, upon the natal stem
Where my own bud of life its germ put forth,
Expos'd its downy surface to the air.
Never was bloom more favor'd of the skies.
For God beheld its beauty, and the flower
Designing to transplant, when fully blown,
To where its loveliness should never fade,
And its rich scent breathe ever unconsum'd,
Set over it his angels. On its top
Glisten'd each morn the honey-dew of heaven,
And the bright sun its grain dy'd vermil-red.
Increas'd the flower, admir'd of Heaven and men,
And, when its cup was fully op'd, diffus'd
Such ravishing fragrance as enslav'd the sense.
'T was then the Almighty, from the height of Heaven, Stretch'd forth his arm, and took it to himself.
Such was my sister. Of her earlier years
I not remember; for, too near of age,
I was unheedful of her dawning worth,
Nor, as with thee, my other, later loss!
Over her infancy and blushing prime
Kept an unchanging and a fond regard.
But they who knew her best have still describ'd her
Gentle and docile, yet of fearless heart,
Loving, and lovely, and belov'd of all,
In nothing selfish, and, in speech and thought,
From the great vice and weakness of her sex,
That stain of little minds, from falsehood free,
Since thought and speech were hers; which I believe :
For not from out the sorb the sweet peach blushes, (1) Nor turns the prickly thistle to a rose.
And beautiful she grew, how very beautiful!
With eyes so large, and dark, so full of soul!
And brows that look'd like purity itself,
And were the very index of her mind,
Telling of harmony, and holy thought,
And high resolve with resignation mix'd,
And contemplation sad yet not severe,
And a sweet smile, which round the innocent mouth, Whose hue was of the newly-budding rose,
Play'd with a heaven-born grace that witch'd the heart; Not always there, but, o'er the summer sky
Of her serene and starry visage, flashing
A light which pass'd away,
the electric fire of storms,
But leaving a soft radiance in its track,
As 't were reflected from the effulgence gone ;
Whether 't were so indeed, or fancied so,
By those on whose delighted eyes, thrice bless'd,
The ineffable beauty of its lustre fell.
Well might they be delighted, fortunate they!
For the light quiver'd from the virgin's heart.
As she grew up, and my eyes open'd more
To her most manifest and expanding worth,
We grew more fond; we had been aye attach'd,
(Indeed, she was the favorite of us all.
Loving and lovely, could it well be else?)
Si disconvien fruttare al dolce fico.
We grew more fond: and what a world of love
Was hers for me! ungrateful that I was !
Who could but ill repay with my whole heart
Affection measureless and strong as hers.
For hers was twined likewise with her mind :
Her thoughts, her speech, her looks were full of me ;
All that she did was modell'd to my taste,
If modelling were needed, when, itself,
Aught that she did was almost sure to please,
Who was, in each thing, excellent and good,
And cast in such a mould, that grace to her
Seem'd natural as motion. Yet being such,
So good, so beautiful, so fine of form,
Such the devotion, I might even say
The fond idolatry of her regard,
That Flattery had no compliment so dear
As that which told her she resembled me,
Who (Heaven doth know it, and, alas, myself
Only too well!) was even so like to her
As brass is to the gold it most resembles ;
A metal of like color, but soon tarnish'd,
Mix'd of two others, both of baser sort,
Weightless, intractile, and of odor vile.
How happy were our days! how jocund too!
For though contemplative, as I have said,
She was of cheerful mood, my most fair sister,
Taking delight in all things, all things good,
And gifted with a deal of playful wit,
And a rich humor that was ever prompt
For jest, or repartee, or frolic gay,
When jest and repartee and frolic gay
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