Oh! if, as Arabs fancy, the traces on thy brow
Were symbols of thy future fate, and I could read them now,
Almost without a fear would I explore the mystic chart,
Believing that the world were weak to darken such a heart.

As yet to thy untroubled soul, as yet to thy young eyes,
The skies above are very heaven--the earth is paradise;
The birds that glance in joyous air--the flowers that happiest be,
That ''toil not, neither do they spin,''--are they not types of thee?

And yet, and yet--beloved child,--to thy enchanted sight,
Blest as the present is, the days to come seem yet more bright,
For thine is hope, and thine is love, and thine the glorious power,
That gives to hope its fairy light, to love its richest dower.

For me that twilight time is past--those sun--rise colours gone--
The prophecies of childhood--and, the promises of dawn;
And yet what is, tho' scarcely heard, will speak of what has been,
While Love assumes a gentler tone, and Hope a calmer mien.

Oh! could we know--oh! could we feel, that blessings haunt each spot,
--Even children--each its angel hath--albeit we see them not--
That earth to them who live in faith, still is what they believe,
And they, who fear deception most, themselves indeed deceive.

My child, my love, my Nannie, at this hour my heart flows free,
And wanders over field and flower where I have strayed with thee;
Thy very voice--thy very smile--is present with me still,
And it commands me from afar, almost against my will.

To--day I trod enchanted ground, and saw the Sunset gleam
Upon Kilcoleman's fading tower and Spenser's lonely stream,
Even then, as in my youth, I fèlt the minstrel shadows come,
And my heart, that sported all day long,--sank, powerless--passive--dumb.

How was it that thine image, Anne, was with me in that hour,
All that thou wert and art,--and, when my soul resumed its power,
I sought--I almost fear in vain--that feeling to prolong
And give it utterance in verse,--accept--forgive the song!