The tale I tell was told me long ago;
Yet many a tale, since heard, has pass'd away,
While this still wakens memory's fondest glow,
And feelings fresh as those of yesterday:
'Twas told me by a man whose hairs were grey,
Whose brow bore token of the lapse of years,
Yet o'er his heart affection's gentle sway
Maintain'd that lingering spell which age endears,
And while he told his tale his eyes were dim with tears.

But not with tears of sorrow;—for the eye
Is often wet with joy and gratitude;
And well his faltering voice, and tear, and sigh
Declared a heart by thankfulness subdued:
Brief feelings of regret might there intrude,
Like clouds which shade awhile the moon's fair light;
But meek submission soon her power renew'd,
And patient smiles, by tears but made more bright,
Confess'd that God's decree was wise, and good, and right.

It was a winter's evening—clear, but still;
Bright was the fire, and bright the silvery beam
Of the fair moon shone on the window sill
And parlour-floor;—the softly mingled gleam
Of fire and moonlight suited well a theme
Of pensive converse unallied to gloom;
Ours varied like the subjects of a dream,
And turn'd at last upon the silent tomb,
Earth's goal for hoary age and beauty's smiling bloom.

We talk'd of life's last hour;—the varied forms
And features it assumes; how some men are
As sets the sun when dark clouds threaten storms,
And starless night; others whose evening sky
Resembles those which to the outward eye
Seem full of promise;—and with soften'd tone,
At seasons check'd by no ungrateful sigh,
The death of one sweet grand-child of his own
Was by that hoary man most tenderly made known.

She was, he said, a fair and lovely child,
As ever parent could desire to see,
Or seeing, fondly love; of manners mild,
Affections gentle, even in her glee
Her very mirth from levity was free;
But her more common mood of mind was one
Thoughtful beyond her early age, for she
In ten brief years her little course had run,—
Many more brief have known, but brighter surely none.

Though some might deem her pensive, if not sad,
Yet those who knew her better, best could tell
How calmly happy and how meekly glad
Her quiet heart in its own depths did dwell,
Like to the waters of some crystal well,
In which the stars of heaven at noon are seen;
Fancy might deem on her young spirit fell
Glimpses of light more glorious and serene
Than that of life's brief day, so heavenly was her mien.

But though no boisterous playmate, her fond smile
Had sweetness in it passing that of mirth;
Loving and kind, her thoughts, words, deeds, the while
Betray'd of childish sympathy no dearth:
She loved the wild flowers scatter'd over earth,
Bright insects sporting in the light of day,
The blackbird trolling joyous music forth,
The cuckoo shouting in the woods away;
All these she loved as much as those who seem'd more gay.

But more she loved the word, the smile, the look,
Of those who rear'd her with religious care;
With fearful joy she conn'd that holy book,
At whose unfolded page full many a prayer,
In which her weal immortal had its share,
Recurr'd to memory; for she had been train'd,
Young as she was, her early cross to bear;
And taught to love with fervency unfeign'd
The record of His life whose death salvation gain'd.

I dare not linger, like my ancient friend,
On every charm and grace of this fair maid;
For, in his narrative, the story's end
Was long with fond prolixity delay'd;
Though fancy had too well its close portray'd
Before I heard it. Who but might have guess'd
That one so fit for heaven would early fade
In this brief state of trouble and unrest?
Yet only wither here to bloom in life more blest.

My theme is one of joy, and not of grief;
I would not loiter o'er such flower's decay,
Nor stop to paint it slowly, leaf by leaf,
Fading and sinking to its parent clay:
She sank, as sinks the glorious orb of day,
His radiance brightening at his journey's close;
Yet with that chasten'd, soft, and gentle ray
In which no dazzling splendour fiercely glows,
But on whose mellow'd light our eyes with joy repose.

Her strength was failing, but it seem'd to sink
So calmly, tenderly, it woke no fear;
'Twas like a rippling wave on ocean's brink,
Which breaks in dying music on the ear,
And placid beauty on the eye;—no tear
Except of quiet joy in hers was known;
Though some there were around her justly dear,
Her love for whom in every look was shown,
Yet more and more she sought and loved to be alone.

One summer morn they miss'd her;—she had been
As usual to the garden arbour brought,
After their matin meal; her placid mien
Had worn no seeming shade of graver thought,
Her voice, her smile, with cheerfulness was fraught,
And she was left amid that peaceful scene
A little space; but when she there was sought,
In her secluded oratory green,
Their arbour's sweetest flower had left its leafy screen.

They found her in her chamber, by the bed
Whence she had risen, and on the bed-side chair,
Before her, was an open Bible spread;
Herself upon her knees:—with tender care
They stole on her devotions, when the air
Of her meek countenance the truth made known:
The child had died—died in the act of prayer—
And her pure spirit, without sigh or groan,
To heaven and endless joy from earth and grief had flown.