Legends and Lyrics. Part 1. Procter Adelaide Anne

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      “He against the gate of iron

      Pressed his wan and wistful face,

      Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure

      At the glories of the place;

      Never had his brightest day-dream

      Shone with half such wondrous grace.

      “You were playing in that garden,

      Throwing blossoms in the air,

      Laughing when the petals floated

      Downwards on your golden hair;

      And the fond eyes watching o’er you,

      And the splendour spread before you,

      Told a House’s Hope was there.

      “When your servants, tired of seeing

      Such a face of want and woe,

      Turning to the ragged Orphan,

      Gave him coin, and bade him go,

      Down his cheeks so thin and wasted,

      Bitter tears began to flow.

      “But that look of childish sorrow

      On your tender child-heart fell,

      And you plucked the reddest roses

      From the tree you loved so well,

      Passed them through the stern cold grating,

      Gently bidding him ‘Farewell!’

      “Dazzled by the fragrant treasure

      And the gentle voice he heard,

      In the poor forlorn boy’s spirit,

      Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred;

      In his hand he took the flowers,

      In his heart the loving word.

      “So he crept to his poor garret;

      Poor no more, but rich and bright,

      For the holy dreams of childhood —

      Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light —

      Floated round the Orphan’s pillow

      Through the starry summer night.

      “Day dawned, yet the visions lasted;

      All too weak to rise he lay;

      Did he dream that none spake harshly —

      All were strangely kind that day?

      Surely then his treasured roses

      Must have charmed all ills away.

      “And he smiled, though they were fading;

      One by one their leaves were shed;

      ‘Such bright things could never perish,

      They would bloom again,’ he said.

      When the next day’s sun had risen

      Child and flowers both were dead.

      “Know, dear little one! our Father

      Will no gentle deed disdain;

      Love on the cold earth beginning

      Lives divine in Heaven again,

      While the angel hearts that beat there

      Still all tender thoughts retain.”

      So the angel ceased, and gently

      O’er his little burthen leant;

      While the child gazed from the shining,

      Loving eyes that o’er him bent,

      To the blooming roses by him,

      Wondering what that mystery meant.

      Thus the radiant angel answered,

      And with tender meaning smiled:

      “Ere your childlike, loving spirit,

      Sin and the hard world defiled,

      God has given me leave to seek you —

      I was once that little child!”

      * * *

      In the churchyard of that city

      Rose a tomb of marble rare,

      Decked, as soon as Spring awakened,

      With her buds and blossoms fair —

      And a humble grave beside it —

      No one knew who rested there.