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314           JULIA H. SCOTT.

In the clear brook are springing water-cresses, 
And pale-green rushes, and fair, nameless flowers, 
While o'er them dip the willow's verdant tresses, 
Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers.
The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping
Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves;
Oh, Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping, 
And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves: 
'Tis nought to me my child! 

Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter;
The school has sent its eldest inmates forth;
And now a smaller band comes dancing after,
Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth.
At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending
To clasp her rosy darling to her breast;
Joy, pride and hope are in her bosom blending;
Ah, peace with her is no unusual guest;
Not so with me, my child! 

All the day long I listen to the singing 
Of the gay birds and winds among the trees; 
But a sad under-strain is ever ringing 
A tale of death and its dread mysteries.
Nature to me the letter is that killeth— 
The spirit of her charms has pass'd away;
A fount of bliss no more my bosom filleth— 
Slumbers its idol in unconscious clay! 
Thou art in the grave, my child!

For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth;
I languish for thy blue eyes' holy light;
Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth;
Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night!
I walk in darkness, with the tomb before me, 
Longing to lay my dust beside thy own; 

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-27 23:36:40 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 12:19:32 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 11:34:03 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 12:42:07