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Of the sadness left behind her In the mansion whence she parted, Loneliness, and bitter heart-ache, Deep, unutter'd apprehension, Fearful looking for of judgment, It were vain in lays so feeble To attempt a true recital. --Still, to Mother and to Sister Came epistles from Miranda, Essenc'd and genteelly written, Painting happiness so perfect, So transcending expectation, So surpassing all that fancy In her wildest flights had pencil'd, That even Eden ere the tempter Coil'd himself amid the blossoms Fail'd to furnish fitting symbol. * * * * * Heartfelt bliss is never boastful, Like the holy dew it stealeth To the bosom of the violet, Only told by deeper fragrance. --He who saith "See! see! I'm happy? Happier than all else around me," Leaves, perchance, a doubt behind him Whether he hath comprehended What true happiness implieth. * * * * * Oh, the storm-cloud and the tempest! Oh, the dreary night of winter! Drifting snows, and winds careering Down the tall, wide-throated chimney, Like the shrieking ghosts from Hades. Shrieking ghosts of buried legions. --"Mother! hear I not the wailing Of a human voice?" "My daughter! 'Tis the blast that rends the pine-trees. The old sentry-Oak is broken, Close beside our chamber-window, And its branches all are moaning. 'Tis their grief you hear, my daughter." * * * * * But the maiden's car was quicken'd To all plaint of mortal sorrow, And when next, the bitter north wind Lull'd, to gather strength and vigor, For a new exacerbation, Listening close, she caught the murmur, "Hush mein daughter! hush mein baby." Then she threw the door wide open, Though the storm rush'd in upon her, With its blinding sleet and fury. What beheld she, near the threshold, Prostrate there beside the threshold, But a woman, to whose bosom Clung a young and sobbing infant? --Oh the searching look that kindled 'Neath those drooping, straining eye-lids, Searching mid the blast and darkness, For some helper in her anguish, Searching, kindling look, that settled Into heavy, deadly slumber, As the waning taper flashes Once, to be relumin'd never. Still her weak arm clasp'd the baby, Rais'd its pining, pinching features, Faintly cried, "Mein kind! Have pity, Pity, for the love of Jesus!" --Yes, forlorn, benighted wanderer, Thy poor, failing feet have brought thee Where
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