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Title: Angelina
Author: John S. Adams [
More Titles by Adams]
BLUE-EYED child, with flaxen ringlets,
'Neath my window played, one day;
And its tiny song of gladness,
Sounded like an angel's lay.
Roses bright in beauty blossomed
Round the path the cherub trod
Yet it seemed that child was fairest,
Freshest from the hand of God.
Watched I her till hour of sunset
Told me of the coming night,
And the sun o'er rock and mountain
Shed its flood of golden light.
Yet she gambolled, though the dew-drops
Fell upon her thick and fast;
Fearing ill, I went and told her,--
Dearest child, the day hath past:
"Haste thee to thy home,--there waiting
Is thy parent, thee to bless."
Then she hasted from the play-ground,
To her mother's fond caress.
Stars shone forth in all their splendor,
And the moon with silver light
Rose in beauty, and presided
Queen o'er all the hosts of night.
Days had passed; I had not seen her,
Had not heard her merry laugh,
Nor those joyous tones that told me
Of the joy her spirit quaffed.
Vain I asked whence Angelina
Had departed,--none could tell;
Feared I then that sorrow gathered
O'er the child I loved so well.
Funeral train passed by my window,--
Banished were all thoughts of mirth;
And I asked of one who lingered,
"Who hath passed to heaven from earth?"
In his eye a tear-drop glistened,
As he, turning, to me said,
"Heaven now holds another angel,--
Little Angelina's dead!"
I could scarce believe the tidings,
Till I stood above her grave,
And beheld those flaxen ringlets,
That so late did buoyant wave,
Lie beside a face whose features
Still in death did sweetly smile
And methought angelic beauty
Lingered on her cheeks the while.
At the pensive hour of twilight,
Oft do angel-footsteps tread
Near her grave, and flowers in beauty
Blossom o'er the early dead;
And a simple marble tablet
Thence doth unassuming rise,
And these simple words are on it,--
"Here our Angelina lies."
Oft at night, when others slumber,
One bends o'er that holy spot;
And the tear-drops fall unnumbered
O'er her sad yet happy lot.
Friends, though oft they mourn her absence,
Do in meek submission bow;
For a voice from heaven is whispering,
"Angelina's happy now."
[The end]
John S. Adams's poem: Angelina
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